


Make Him Proud

by ZiZzy



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Fix-It, Gen, but a lovable ass, haytham is an ass, homesteader bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2014-06-02
Packaged: 2017-12-09 16:07:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 41,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/776140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZiZzy/pseuds/ZiZzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(AC3 spoilers ahead)</p><p>Devastated from Achilles' unexpected death, Connor is unable to deliver the killing blow in his fight with Haytham. Instead he drags his wounded father back to the homestead. He entrusts his father's recuperation to Doctor White and returns to his quest for Charles Lee. </p><p>A (hopefully) believable fix-it fic where not everything is sunshine and roses, but maybe the boys are a little more willing to listen to one another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Divergence

**Author's Note:**

> Pairing: predominantly gen (past Ziio/Haytham), canon homesteader pairings (Myriam/Norris, Prudence/Warren)
> 
> Warnings: parent-child violence, but nothing past the level of the game, same with the general violence level, little to no sexual content (as of right now), general spoilers for AC3
> 
> A/N: This fic came about as a result of a conversation between my roommate and me about what we would have loved to see at the end of AC3. It is a collection of oneshots within the same universe and any important ordering and chronology will he noted at the start of the chapter. Happy reading (and feel free to submit anything you might like to see).
> 
> Chronology: Slight change from the game; Achilles has already died when Connor and Haytham have their fight (so I’ve moved his death up about a month from my understanding of in-game timeline)

Chapter 1: A Divergence

Killing for a purpose never bothered Connor. From the time he was very small his mother had taught him how to properly bait traps and snares and how to kill the animals they needed to survive quickly and as painlessly as possible. She taught him to thank the animal for its sacrifice and to never kill unless it was necessary.

It was the last of her lessons that stayed with him the most as he grew older and wiser in the ways of the world. Never kill unless it is necessary. The very phrase supposed that sometimes it is necessary to kill. Sometimes animals had to die to protect your family, sometimes people had to die for the same reason. It was because of this central tenet that Connor never felt guilt from his deeds under Achilles' direction. The people he killed wanted to hurt his him, his family. The only solution was to ensure that they could not do so.

Haytham Kenway was the only exception to this rule. The man was his father, in blood if not in deed. The man had loved Connor's mother, that much at least was obvious to him from his reaction to the news of her murder. But, he did not love Connor, a fact Connor was perfectly alright with for he did not love Haytham. To be honest, he did not even like Haytham most days. The man was infuriating in a way no other he had ever encountered was. On their short voyage all Haytham had done was criticize and complain. Connor strongly considered having the man thrown in the brig for the duration of the journey.

Despite all his flaws, Connor did not want Haytham dead. He wanted the man to cease his plotting by choice. He wanted to sit and talk with his father and learn why he had left his mother. He wanted to ask why Haytham was not there the day the village burned and his mother died. He wanted to ask so many things and to learn everything. Achilles had said this was not possible and Connor trusted Achilles, but he still held onto the tiny spark of hope in his chest.

Maybe, if he did everything right he would not have to kill his father.

* * *

If he was honest with himself, something that rarely happened these days, Haytham regretted that the last memory he would have of his son was of the boy looking up at him with fear and hatred in his eyes. He hated that instead of smoothing away a lock of unruly hair, or brushing a thumb across a forehead, he was instead gripping Connor's throat and squeezing. He hated that he would ever be able to think of Connor and not see the hatred and fear in those eyes, so very like the boy's mothers'. But, he was a man of duty and these regrets were not enough to belay his orders.

His fingers tightened, digging deeper into Connor's neck. The assassin struggled in vain beneath him, already injured by their fight and the previous explosions, Connor had almost no strength left. That much was readily visible in the desperate way the boy's fingers danced along Haytham's arm, seeking a pressure point but lacking either the knowledge or ability to exploit one. One hand gripped Haytham wrist, weakly tugging and the other dropped to the ground.

It was in that moment that Haytham made the mistake that killed him. Seeing victory quite literally within his grasp his fingers weakened their hold infinitesimally. Connor drew a ragged, shallow breath. His eyes casting about, likely trying to see through the shadows that would fill his vision, Haytham mused absently.

The sudden flare of agony surprised Haytham. Against his will his fingers loosed their hold on Connor's neck and he rock back on his heels. What-? He twisted, eliciting another spike of pain, to look at Connor. The hidden blade his son wore dripped red. Haytham cursed himself even as he began to feel faint. Of course Connor wore the traditional weapon of the assassins, why wouldn't he? It had been so long since Haytham fought a true assassin. He had forgotten. An unforgivable mistake, and by the feel of it, one he would not live to regret.

The blackness encroached quickly after that. Haytham slumped to the side, hitting the ground with a thump and a puff of dust. In his peripheral vision he could see Connor laying almost motionless save for the rapid rise and fall of his chest. For the first time since finding out he had a son he felt a strange stirring in his chest; the same stirring he had felt as a young man when he achieved the rank of Footpad and truly begun his Assassin training, the same warm feeling he had felt when he made his first kill as a Templar and began helping the world in a way his father and grandfather never had. Pride. He was proud of his son. The very thought was almost absurd, but he could not deny the emotion existed.

"I – I will not weep and wonder what might have been," he forced the words out through cracked, bloody lips. "Still though, I am proud of you in a way," he had not meant to say that part out loud, curse his weakness. Connor shifted slightly, obviously listening to him. Haytham sighed, in for a penny, in for a pound as his mother used to say, "You have shown great conviction, strength, courage," he paused to breathe, a task that grew more difficult with every passing moment, "All noble qualities."

His strength failing him completely at that moment and he tipped to the ground, "I should have killed you long ago." He hoped Connor took that as the complement it was meant to be, for it was the last thing Haytham would ever say.

The Blackness took him.

* * *

Connor hurt. Everything about him ached and throbbed, pulsing waves of pain that beat in time with his racing heart. His breath rasped against his throat, loud and harsh in his ears. He could feel one hand twitching slightly, still trying to defend him though the immediate danger had passed. It was over, he had killed his father. The very thought hurt more than any of the bright sparks of flame in his limbs.

He wanted to lie where he was until sleep took him and wake up refreshed and ready to hunt down Charles Lee. But, that was not a possibility. Loud booms and crashes told him that though he could not see it from where he lay the bombardment was still going strong. He needed to move. He needed Doctor White and about a week of rest, though he knew that he would only get one of those.

With a soul deep groan Connor rolled onto his less injured side and levered himself to a semi-sitting position. Haytham lay in the debris not three feet from him. His eyes were closed and blood still leaked from the hole in his shoulder. Mindless of the rubble cutting into his palms and knees Connor crawled over and placed his hand over the Templar's eyes, preparing to mutter a short plea for the man's spirit to find peace.

A warm puff of air hit his hand. Connor jerked back. What-?

"Father?" For the first time he noticed the slight twitches of Haytham's hands. He still lived.

A rush of determination filled Connor. His father would not die today, not by his hand. Connor slid his arm under Haytham's shoulders and straightened as carefully as he could. It hurt, far more than he had thought it would, but he was determined. There was an entrance to the underground not far from here; they could hide there until the battle stopped.

 

 


	2. Flying Machines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: predominantly gen (past Ziio/Haytham), canon homesteader pairings (Myriam/Norris, Prudence/Warren)
> 
> Warnings: parent-child violence, but nothing past the level of the game, same with the general violence level, little to no sexual content (as of right now), general spoilers for AC3
> 
> A/N: This fic came about as a result of a conversation between my roommate and me about what we would have loved to see at the end of AC3. It is a collection of oneshots within the same universe and any important ordering and chronology will he noted at the start of the chapter. Happy reading (and feel free to submit anything you might like to see).
> 
> Chronology: Slight change from the game; Achilles has already died when Connor and Haytham have their fight (so I’ve moved his death up about a month from my understanding of in-game timeline)

 

 

Chapter 2: Flying Machines  


Lord but he hated this damn war; it was bad for business and damn stressful to boot. Was it really necessary to bombard the city all afternoon? He had a pounding headache and those canons showed no signs of stopping. With a soul deep sigh John Mercereau shuffled the papers on his desk, trying to find at least a semblance of order before he left for the night. Maybe his wife had been able to get a little sugar imported before the embargo and he could sit down in front of the fire and enjoy one of the last few tea bags they had squirreled away. A smile curled his lips at the thought.

"Anne?" He called.

A brief silence from the front room before his assistant appeared at the door to his office. She was a pretty young thing, he had often thought, with curves in all the right places and a warm smile that made him feel both very old and very young all at once. But, right then all he could think of was the pounding of his head in time with the canons.

"You don't live down by the harbor?" Both he and his wife were fond of the girl. If it was too dangerous for her to go home for the evening Marceline would have no problem putting her up for the night. The woman always prepared too much for dinner anyway now that the children were grown.

But she shook her head, "No sir, I live just north of the city."

"Good, good," he muttered rubbing one hand down his sallow cheek. "Then you should head on home. We don't know if it's going to get any worse out there."

She entered the room and gathered up the papers from in front of him. "Oh, Mr. Mercereau, you've gone and messed them all up."

"Fix it tomorrow, Anne," he admonished, "We both need to go home."

"Yes, sir," she retreated to the front room to gather her things. He did the same in his office, happily able to tune out the bombs for the first time all afternoon.

His musings on what Marceline might have cooked and whether or not the letter from their youngest had arrived yet were interrupted by a shrill shriek from the front room. He threw down his jacket and leapt the short distance to the door. Anne had pressed herself against the back wall, hands over her mouth and eyes wide in terror. Before her stood two men covered in blood.

Mercereau stopped in his tracks. They could simply be fleeing the shoreline and looking for shelter…. But some instinct in him rebelled against that idea. These men were dangerous. He moved to stand in front of Anne.

"What do you want?" He noticed that only one of the men appeared to actually be awake and was holding up the other with what appeared to be a great effort. Lord in Heaven he hoped there was not currently a dead man in his humble shop.

"We require your assistance," the man holding up his companion intoned in a low, strained voice. He shifted slightly revealing a dark complexion and hair flying free of its binds. His face was splotched with more blood and looked pained. "I have the means to pay."

Pay? Oh, well that was another matter entirely. Suddenly Mercereau felt far more kindly disposed towards the pair.

"Our next Flying Machine departs tomorrow morning by the river," he informed the two, "It'll be forty-two shillings for the two of you. You're lucky there's two places available."

But the man was shaking his head, "No. We are not travelling to Philadelphia."

"I'm afraid that's the only place we go, son," Mercereau felt far more comfortable when talking business. He could almost forget the alarming appearance of his customers.

"We need to go here," the man winced as he pulled a small scrap of map from his coat pocket, "I can pay one hundred pounds."

Mercereau felt his eyes bug out. Anne gasped. One hundred pounds was an unheard of sum for such a journey. But, money was money and Marceline had been complaining about the slowed income.

"We would need to leave as soon as could be arranged," the man seemed to take his silence for acceptance.

Mercereau stared at the two of them for a long moment. The younger, and more conscious, of the two stared back. He seemed desperate in a way Mercereau did not understand.

"Please," the young man said, "This man is terribly injured and I need to get him home to a doctor."

"Why not use a doctor in the city?" Anne leaned out from behind Mercereau to ask, "This is New York, we have the best doctors in the colonies here."

The young man looked uncomfortable at that suggestion, "I would rather not have any questions asked about how he became injured," he finally said.

Mercereau muttered a quick prayer and nodded, "Alright, son, you've got yourself a Flying Machine. We can be ready to leave within the hour." He turned to Anne, "Anne, do you mind telling my wife what has happened and that I will be home in three days." God, he hoped she would understand.

* * *

The carriage bumped and jarred in a way that Connor was not used to. On a horse he could have felt the way the beast's muscles prepped before a sudden movement and compensated by moving with the animal. That was impossible in the carriage. Locked away from the outside world Connor had no way to predict from which direction the next bump would come. This uncertainty left him tense and foul tempered.

At least the man who owned the coach had been quick to prepare the horses and get them on the road. He had insisted he be paid up front, a courtesy which Connor grudgingly agreed to. Mr. Mercereau, as he had introduced himself after the girl left, was a thin sharp looking man whose eyes had gleamed unpleasantly when he saw the coins. But, after his initial wariness he asked no questions and Connor could tell that they were making good time.

The coach jerked violently to the left sending Connor into the wall. He hissed in pain and clutched at his ribs. Once he and Haytham were safely ensconced in the tunnels beneath New York Connor had wrapped both of their more serious wounds, but his ribs still ached fiercely. Haytham had only stirred slightly when Connor pressed down on the gaping hole in his shoulder. He hated to admit it, but Connor was beginning to worry that he might have killed his father, despite his best efforts not to.

Connor rested his head in his hands. What was he doing? Achilles would slap him silly if he knew that Connor was bringing their greatest enemy home for dinner. It felt terribly disrespectful to disobey one of the few true commands Achilles had ever given him so soon after the man's passing. But, it's not like Haytham would be staying for long, Connor tried to justify. The thought rang false even in the confines of his mind.

He groaned. Achilles was going to haunt him for this. He just knew it.

* * *

 

 

 

* * *

 **Next time:** Connor and Haytham arrive at the homestead, Haytham finally gets the doctor’s attention, and Connor has a nice conversation with Norris.

 **Fun Facts about Colonial America** : The Flying Machine was a stagecoach company that ran between New York and Philadelphia, here's the ad from the New York Gazette and Weekly Mercury (Feb 6, 1775):

 

 

 


	3. Blind Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: predominantly gen (past Ziio/Haytham), canon homesteader pairings (Myriam/Norris, Prudence/Warren)  
> Warnings: parent-child violence, but nothing past the level of the game, same with the general violence level, little to no sexual content, general spoilers for AC3
> 
> A/N: This fic came about as a result of a conversation between my roommate and me about what we would have loved to see at the end of AC3. It is a collection of oneshots within the same universe and any important ordering and chronology will he noted at the start of the chapter. Happy reading (and feel free to submit anything you might like to see).
> 
> Chronology: Slight change from the game; Achilles has already died when Connor and Haytham have their fight (so I’ve moved his death up about a month from my understanding of in-game timeline)

Chapter 3: Blind Trust

Connor had just begun to recognize the trees and rock formations that flashed past the window as being on the Davenport lands when the stagecoach rattled to a stop. He forced himself to his feet, half bent over in order to stand in the confined space. Haytham slid further back into the seat Connor had laid him across so many hours before. The Templar was far paler than he had been when their journey started and small beads of sweat had formed on his brow, despite the breeze through the open windows.

The door was yanked open, causing the entire carriage to shift. Mr. Mercereau appeared, looking travel weary and harried.

"There's a large British patrol just around the bend," he panted, "I've a feeling you two don't want to be caught?"

Connor's eyes widened. Why were the British on his lands? They had never crossed into the homestead before. Rapid-fire thoughts about his identity being discovered and the people of the village being harmed on his account filled his head.

"No, we do not wish to be discovered," he managed to force out through gritted teeth. "We will leave you here." He reached into his belt pouch and pulled out another handful of coins. "Thank you for your services. If anyone asks-"

Mr. Mercereau waved one hand, "Lad, I'll admit you startled me showing up as you did. But, you seem like a good sort and you have nothing to fear. I won't mention you to anyone. These are hard times for everyone. If you ever need transport don't hesitate to call on me and mine, I won't deny that your coin is well appreciated."

With those words he stepped back away from the door. Connor placed the coins back into his purse. Despite the soreness of sitting for so long and being jarred by the movement of the carriage, he felt better for having rested. As gently as he could and still be moving quickly, Connor scooped up Haytham and exited the carriage. Once outside he hoisted the man over his shoulders. Immediately he could feel the strain on his ribs and other injuries. Haytham was not a small man by any definition.

"Can you make it, lad?" Even as he spoke, Mr. Mercereau pulled himself back into the driver's seat and picked up the reins. Connor nodded, unable to speak for fear of losing what little breath he had been able to catch.

"Good, I'll delay them for a bit. Good luck." He nodded once and smiled, his thin face folding around the gesture. "Hi-ya!" He slapped the reins against the horses' backs.

Connor turned towards the woods on the side of the road. He would not be able to make it all the way to the village, much less the house. Luckily, the previous winter he had helped Myriam build a few hunting blinds in this area. He did not think they would have fallen into disrepair so soon. Maybe one would be a safe place to leave Haytham.

When he came upon the first blind Connor thought he might cry. It had been destroyed, perhaps by a thunderstorm or elk in rut. The next one he knew of was normally only a short run away, but injured as he was and carrying the dead weight of his father, that distance felt nigh-on insurmountable. But, Connor was nothing if not stubborn. He gritted his teeth and continued on. The road was now completely out of sight and he would not cross another one until after the next blind so he need not worry about making noise or attracting any undesired attention.

He kept his eyes on the ground as he walked to avoid tripping. It was strangely comforting to look down and see the same leaves and dirt he had always known. It seemed the earth was the only true constant in his life. Seasons came and went, snows and summer rains, but the ground was always sure and steady beneath his feet. His toe scraped a line in the dust causing him to stumble. Connor shook his head at his own folly. Poetic thoughts did him no good and distracted him from truly focusing on his surroundings. He shifted Haytham into a slightly less uncomfortable position on his shoulders. The blind should be in sight soon enough….

He huffed out a breath in relief when he saw that the blind had made it through the seasons unscathed; nestled in a crevice between two large outcroppings of the grey stone that so characterized the region the blind had been protected from the wind and other elements. Connor lowered Haytham to the ground outside the blind. He reached in and swept out all the debris he could before dragging his father into the small space.

Though Connor was sure that Haytham would not be waking up without medical attention, he was also highly distrustful of the man. He pulled out two snares from his quiver and looped them first around Haytham's wrists, then his ankles. The snares were tied off with a knot Achilles had taught him all those years ago. Connor thought the old man would have appreciated it being used to bind a Templar. Once he was sure that Haytham would not being going anywhere Connor set up the remaining snares around the entrance to the blind in a semi circle. Any animal attracted by the scent of blood would hopefully be caught before it could reach the helpless man.

Having accomplished everything he could think of to not only ensure Haytham's safety, but also prevent his escape, Connor stood back. He ran one hand through his hair. Oh, he hoped this was the right thing to do. He would much prefer to carry the man all the way back himself, but knew that was impossible. He sighed and turned away from the man. The quicker he left, the quicker he could get back and make sure Haytham wasn't eaten by wolves. Or bears. Or a particularly aggressive raccoon…. A tiny smile curled the corners of his lips as he set off without another backward glance.

Now that he had left his burden behind Connor was free to move with as much haste as his battered body could manage. It was still not anywhere close to the normal grace with which he traversed the trees and forest paths, but it was a great deal faster than he had been moving. Despite the increased speed he found that he could also breathe easier than before and reveled in that ability by taking deep gulps of sweet mountain air as he jogged.

The sun had just begun its descent when the village came into view. Lights and gentle whirls of smoke and the sounds of happy people and Connor felt that small lingering smile grow large. He loved these people and the home they had made together. This time of the evening, when all work had been finished for the day, the people of the homestead typically gathered at the Mile's End Inn. They used the time to catch up on the day and laugh about the antics of their children, husbands, and wives. Even from up the road Connor could hear Terry and Godfrey arguing about who had won their latest game of Bocce Ball. He approached with little care for the volume of his steps.

"Lord above!" Godfrey cried. He dropped the bocce ball and leapt the small fence. Terry froze, staring at him with wide eyes. "Terry, get the doc ye looby."

He rested a gentle hand on Connor's elbow, "Where are ye hurt? Here, let's get ye inside."

Connor pulled away, "I am fine, Godfrey," he tried to dismiss the man's concern.

"Connor, ye're covered in blood. Ye're not fine."

For the first time since the fight almost a day previously Connor looked down at himself. Huh, he was covered in blood. That explained why Mr. Mercereau had been so wary of the two of them, at least.

"It is not my blood," the words were true. Connor was far more sore than he ever remembered being, but he was not bleeding beyond a few scrapes and cuts. All of this had to be his father's. That thought filled him with a renewed sense of urgency.

"Where is the Doctor?" he asked.

"I'm here!" Doctor White panted as he jogged up. "Oh my, Connor what have you done to yourself?"

Connor rolled his eyes, "It is not my blood. I will explain later. Right now I need you to wait at the house. I will be there soon with your patient."

Lyle nodded. "Do you know what I will be dealing with?"

Connor thought back over the injuries he had glimpsed while patching Haytham up. "He has been stabbed twice, once here," he indicated his wrist, "and once here," this time the meat of his right shoulder, "he has bled a lot and was in multiple explosions."

Godfrey and Terry stared at him in shock, but the Doctor only nodded. "Come, Terry, you can help me carry my supplies up to the house." When Terry hesitated, staring at Connor with wide eyes, Godfrey reached out and gave him a gentle push.

"I need Lance, Big Dave, and any children who are still awake," Connor said as the two left.

"Dave and Lance are at the Inn," Godfrey pointed behind him, "I've got three younguns I know are still rattling about the house. What do you need them to do?"

"Gather as much ticking as they can carry and take it to the empty stall with the window. There are some apples in the kitchen from the spring if they want one after," he still remembered how nice it was to be paid for ones labor in sweets when one was young.

"It'll be done," Godfrey turned on his heel and headed off towards the house overlooking the river where he and his wife lived.

Connor slipped into the inn as quietly as he could. Luck seemed to be with him for once because Lance and Dave were sitting at a small table near the door, deep in conversation over two large flagons. He settled into the available chair at their table.

"I need to ask a favor of each of you."

"Anything, you helped me get my tools back from my no-good-lying-apprentice," Lance immediately responded. Connor looked at Dave. The big man nodded.

"Of course, what can we do for you?"

"Thank you both," Connor sighed his relief. He really had not thought they would refuse, but was unpracticed in asking for help. "Lance, I need a bed. It does not need to be anything more than four legs and a flat, but it does need to be built tonight and placed in the stable stall with a window. Do you have the necessary materials?"

Lance took a long pull from his ale, "Aye, that I do. Is that it?"

"Yes," Connor nodded, "I will be there before full dark with the man who needs the bed."

"Then I'd best be off." Lance stood and quickly exited the Inn.

"What would you have me do?" Connor pushed himself up, regretting sitting even for that short period of time.

"Come, we need to pick up your pull cart and then go to the south woods." They stepped outside as Connor explained, "There is a man injured there. But, I am too weak to bring him myself."

"Can I ask why we're housing him in the stable?" Dave was startlingly perceptive for such a quiet man, Connor thought.

"I do not trust him."

"Would that have anything to do with the state of your clothes? Ellen is not going to be happy with you about that. She was so proud of that jacket."

"The blood is not mine," Connor protested.

"Aye, I knew that," Dave chuckled, "It'd take a lot more than a two bit lowlife to get one over on you and there's not many in the colonies what's more than two bit lowlifes."

Connor privately thought that Haytham was about as far from 'two bit lowlife' as a person could get, but he was beginning to tire and decided to save his breath for the journey back to the hunting blind.

Less than a half hour later the two arrived at the base of the cliffs. Dave set the wagon yoke down about three paces from the entrance to the blind. He bent down to examine one of the snares while Connor carefully broke down the others. "Nice work, these," he commented, "Did you make them?"

"Yes," Connor packed up the last one. Once the way was clear Dave stepped up to the entrance. He stopped and breathed in sharply.

"That's Haytham Kenway," Dave observed noncommittally.

Connor jumped, feeling distinctly guilty about bringing such a dangerous man into their homes. "Um, yes," he muttered, "He is."

"Your da, Haytham Kenway," Dave continued. Connor averted his gaze, looking to the trees for inspiration about a way to escape this conversation.

"How do you know he is my father?"

"Connor, you look just like him."

Connor had never wished for the ground to open up and swallow him before. It was a strange feeling to say the least.

"Let's just get him in the cart," he growled. Big Dave laughed and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Whatever you say, _junior_."

 

* * *

**Historical Notes:**

‘tick’ or ‘straw tack’ is hay that is stuffed into a large mattress shaped bag to make a bed. The hay/straw needed to be changed every so often to be kept fresh. It sounds terribly uncomfortable but I can say from personal experience that when fresh a straw tick/tack bed can be very comfortable and they smell amazing (fresh hay always does). The variation in tick and tack depends on where you are from. In my neck of the woods we say tick, but I know some people from the northwest USA who say tack.

Units of measurement: the concept of ‘feet’ as measurement dates to ancient Rome and was equivalent to 12 _uncial_ or inches (which was originally three barleycorns laid end-to-end) so I would have been entirely correct to have used feet here, however ‘paces’ were a very common unit of measurement in the era and were equivalent to about 5 feet (which is the exact definition today). Here’s pretty nice summary of these terms and their etymological uses/origins if anyone wants to know more: http://physics.info/system-english/

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the reviewer (ff) who wanted Dobby/Connor romance: all the baby assassins (or apprentices if you're getting technical) will play a role in this story and Connor and Dobby will have a strong friendship that you can feel free to interpret as you will (the same with all friendships in this story), but I will not write any true romance for Connor with anyone, that's not really the point of this particular work


	4. Good Men

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: predominantly gen (past Ziio/Haytham), canon homesteader pairings (Myriam/Norris, Prudence/Warren)  
> Warnings: parent-child violence, but nothing past the level of the game, same with the general violence level, little to no sexual content (as of right now), general spoilers for AC3
> 
> A/N: This fic came about as a result of a conversation between my roommate and me about what we would have loved to see at the end of AC3. It is a collection of oneshots within the same universe and any important ordering and chronology will he noted at the start of the chapter. Happy reading (and feel free to submit anything you might like to see).
> 
> Chronology: Slight change from the game; Achilles has already died when Connor and Haytham have their fight (so I’ve moved his death up about a month from my understanding of in-game timeline)
> 
> A/N 2: A reviewer reminded me that I’ve yet to provide an update schedule. Oops… So, the plan is to update everyday with short-ish chapters (about 1500 to 2000 words) but, real life and being crazy busy with the end of the semester might get in the way. So, I will guarantee an update on at least Friday and Sunday of every week. All that being said, there will be no update tomorrow (5/1) since I have two final exams on 5/2. No historical facts today, I'll make up for it on Friday. Cheers!

Chapter 4: Good Men

The noise had been in his ears for the last eternity, slowly dragging him from Morpheus' sweet embrace. He clenched his eyes closed tight. He did not want to go to where the noise was coming from, it was unpleasant and grating. But, with each passing moment he floated further from the pleasant warmth of unconsciousness. Soon, he could feel light on his brow and the stale air of a close space pressing down on him. The sound was suddenly much louder.

Haytham Kenway opened his eyes to a pair of large green eyes not a hand's width from his own. The owner gasped in shock and leapt away. A child, he realized. Why was there a child in his home?

Sharp giggles filtered through the haze surrounding his thoughts and he was able to identify the noise that had torn him from his rest. He revised his last thought; why were there children in his home? He looked around for the first time. Oh… this was not his house in Boston. In fact, he shifted slightly recognizing the feel of a mattress stuffed with hay, this looked like a horse stall. He felt mildly offended that someone would house him, Haytham Kenway, Grandmaster of the Templar Order in the Colonies, in a place built for horses.

"No! You go!" He looked up to see three children gathered at the entrance. He thought two of them might be little girls with their rosy cheeks and curly hair, but he was notoriously terrible with children. They might have been boys. He was quite sure that they were the source of the terrible giggling.

"Nuh-uh! I'm not going!" Haytham wondered just what the children were saying they were not going to do.

"But it's your turn!" Oh, he had a bad feeling about this.

"Sissies!" The smallest of the three, the one he was sure was a boy, ran into the stall. Haytham wanted to sit up, to shift, to do anything really to make sure he could watch what the child was going to do, but lacked the necessary strength. He had the sense that if he tried to move much more than his head everything would hurt.

The little boy ran right up to his side and then froze like a small deer at a snapping twig. He stared at Haytham with wide, brown eyes. Then, he slowly reached out one hand and pressed a single, sticky finger to the tip of Haytham's nose. Before the Templar could even process what had just happened the boy tuned and fled, laughing madly. What the-

"Oh, shoo, go back to the house you rascals!" A pretty black woman with a head scarf and a toddler on her hip waved her hands at the children. They laughed and scampered about but obeyed without protest.

"What-?" Haytham found he was lacking in his normal eloquence. It must be a side-effect of whatever injury he could feel on the edges of his perception. The woman chuckled.

"They were just playing a game," she explained. "I'm Prudence. It is good to see you awake. Connor was worried."

"Connor?" Why was Connor- Haytham remembered for the first time the events leading up to his awakening. He had not thought to live through the night. He looked down at his shoulder. It was wrapped in tight white linen, as was his left forearm.

"It's lucky he got you here when he did. Doctor White said if he had waited much longer you would not have made it," as she spoke she set the child on the ground where it promptly began chewing on a small carved ring and babbling happily. Prudence fixed his blanket, "Would you like to sit up? The doctor said it would be a good idea to do so for at least a little bit. The cook is bringing by some soup later and that will be easier to eat sitting."

"If you don't mind helping." While it was embarrassing to need help to sit up, it was far more so to try to do it on one's own and fail.

"Not at all." She moved to where three large down pillows were stacked and picked them up. A gentle, but firm hand on his upper back and then, with very little input from himself, Haytham was levered into a sitting position and then lowered back onto the pillows. He gasped in a breath at the spike of pain from the motion, but it quickly subsided.

"You are quite strong, my lady," it would not hurt to butter up the locals if Connor really was known and liked in the area.

"I am a farmer, not a lady," if he hadn't liked her before her no nonsense answer would have done it. Haytham was surprised to feel a true smile form.

"I apologize."

"No need, I appreciate the gesture, however false," Lord above, she was intelligent too. Haytham thought her husband must be a very lucky man.

Prudence began to chat about the harvest and how hard it currently was to work with old equipment since no new supplies had come in due to the trade embargos and Haytham allowed her voice to sooth him into a gentle stupor.

* * *

"Why'd you let him live?" Norris could not help but twist his hat as he spoke. The mere idea of having the enemy who had so tormented Connor in their home worried him. To be faced with the man, lying not five rods away was nothing short of nerve-racking. He pressed his back against the pigeon coop they sat next to.

Connor did not respond for a long while and Norris did not push. Connor was never the most talkative man, even when times were good and everyone was well, he became positively tightlipped when stressed.

"I-," Connor swallowed and started again, "I could not kill him. I - we have just lost Achilles and I could not-" He trailed off, looking away, shoulders tense and fists clenched.

Painful realization filled Norris. Of course... Connor thought of Achilles as his dad and had just lost the old man. Haytham might not be Connor's dad, but he was his father by blood. Norris resisted the urge to wrap an arm around Connor, knowing the younger man would not appreciate the action. Instead he nodded.

"I understand, lad," he smiled ruefully, "I can't say I like it. But, I understand."

Connor met his eyes for the first time since Norris arrived at the manor. "Thank you, Norris."

Norris shrugged, "What can I say, you're not the only one around here with, shall we call them _strained_ parental relations."

That elicited the chuckle he was going for and Norris smiled. The smile faded when he looked back at the unconscious man on the bed before them. Connor had explained about Templars and Assassins last winter when a blizzard had confined them to the Inn. Norris hated the idea of Connor being involved in all that but understood that it was not something the man could choose to just quit. Still, he could not help but think Connor's life would have been so much easier if Haytham had just been a normal British businessman who met Connor's mother while assessing the land for purchase.

Norris' thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a large pigeon. Connor reached up and took the note from the small tube attached to the bird's leg. His eyes darted across the tiny slip of paper once before he tore it into smaller strips and ground it beneath his heel.

"I am needed in New York," he grumbled. He turned towards the stables.

"Eh, Connor, New York is that way?"

Connor hung his head, "I know," he sighed, "I need to tell my father I'm going."

Norris waited until Connor's back was turned to smile. The boy had no way of knowing it, but in that moment he sounded like any petulant teenager unwilling to tell their parents their plans. He sent a quick prayer skyward that this would all work out. Connor needed a win.

"Ah, Son, how good of you to visit the father you tried to kill. Prudence said you worried about me," Haytham smirked at his son as he closed the stall doors behind him.

"I did not," Haytham was impressed with how Connor managed to sound so completely emotionless, "I have come to speak with you about the situation."

"So, speak."

"Unfortunately I do not have the time right now. There is something which requires my attention in New York," Connor scrubbed one hand down his face, "I will be gone for a week. All that needs be said right now is that Doctor White will care for you. Once he deems you are fit to stand you may explore these lands. I only ask that you not go in the house on the hill," he gestured in the direction of what Haytham assumed to be the house, "Or leave. The situation has changed since you were injured and I do not want you… Just do not leave."

"I make no guarantees," Haytham said. Suddenly Connor started pacing, obviously struck by an unpleasant thought.

"You will not hurt them," Connor, it seemed was not a proponent of the general pleasantries of conversation, such as logical segues.

"Who am I not hurting?" Haytham, of course, had a very strong suspicion, but it was good for the boy to have to talk about things rather than simply acting on his impulses.

Connor scowled at him, "The people of this land are innocents. They are not involved in Templar or Assassin business and they are off limits to your schemes. You will _not_ hurt them."

Well, that was not quite what Haytham was expecting. He did not respond, unsure of what Connor wanted from him.

Connor seemed to take Haytham's silence for disagreement. He surged forward, a blur of motion that ended with a strong grip and a sharp prick against Haytham's neck. That answered that - the hidden blade, it was always useful to know what weapon one's enemy might go for in any given situation, Haytham mused.

Haytham sighed, "I was not contemplating dragging innocents into our affairs."

Connor pulled the blade back, but did not remove his hand from Haytham's throat.

"It seems to me that we were in this same position not too long ago," Haytham drawled, "You decided not to kill me then. I have no fear that you will do so now." A noise that Haytham could only describe as a growl escaped the younger man. He might have been startled had he not heard the very same sound from his own father upon being awoken after a long night of drinking. It was, however, jarring to hear it from his son.

Connor let go with a jerk and turned on his heel. "I will be back in a week."

* * *

"Connor is cared for around here," the huge man began without preamble. "We wouldn't like if anything happened to him."

Haytham stared at the huge man. He had to resist the urge to laugh out loud.

"Do you know this is the second time I've been threatened away from someone today?" He said as lightly as he could manage. Never let them see you sweat; one of the few lessons he had learned from his father and still utilized. Of course, the eldest living Kenway used the skill for far more unsavory means than his son ever had.

The man glared and leaned back slightly. He cast a glance up and down Haytham.

"Do you think there might be a reason for that, Mr. Kenway?" he growled, "Good people don't need to be warned off doing bad things. Good people are trusted." He left after that without another word.

Haytham watched him leave. He shook his head. These people just didn't understand. He might not be a good person by the stereotypical definition of a do-gooder, but he worked for the benefit of all humanity. He did what he did so that they might one day live in peace, freed from the terror that freedom brings. How could they not understand that?

And yet, the man's final words stayed with him. Good people are trusted.

Did anyone trust him? He didn't think so.

 


	5. Thank You, Old Enemy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: predominantly gen (past Ziio/Haytham), canon homesteader pairings (Myriam/Norris, Prudence/Warren)  
> Warnings: parent-child violence, but nothing past the level of the game, same with the general violence level, little to no sexual content (as of right now), general spoilers for AC3
> 
> A/N: This fic came about as a result of a conversation between my roommate and me about what we would have loved to see at the end of AC3. It is a collection of oneshots within the same universe and any important ordering and chronology will he noted at the start of the chapter. Happy reading (and feel free to submit anything you might like to see).
> 
> Chronology: Four days after Connor and Haytham's fight in the fort. Achilles has been dead about a month. 
> 
> A/N 2: Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed! To those who noted my spelling/grammar mistakes. I think I corrected all those specifically pointed out and have reread this chapter a few times searching for them. However, as you can probably tell, I'm fairly terrible at finding my own mistakes. Please feel free to either point them out (and I'll correct them) or just ignore them. Thanks for taking the time to tell me about them and all the love con-crit has been so helpful. Hopefully ya'll enjoy this installment!

Chapter 5: Thank You, Old Enemy

Haytham had fallen back asleep quickly after the blacksmith left. He still felt weak and shaky and being thrown about the way Connor had done had not helped the ache in his arm and shoulder. He did not remember falling asleep.  One moment he was blinking, trying to stay awake to see the doctor and the next he was opening his eyes to the warmth of a dawn sunbeam on his face. He had curled onto his less injured side in the night and one side of his face was pressed into the mattress. He breathed in the fresh scent of hay. It smelled like his childhood bed in the home where they spent the winter months when it was too dangerous to be on the waters. He had always preferred the tack to the hammock.

The door to the stable creaked open. Haytham shifted so he could see who approached. It was one of the children from the day before, this time looking a tad more wary of him. Haytham supposed Connor must have had a talk with them about the big scary man in the stable. Calling upon almost forgotten days when he was still training to take up arms for a very different cause than the one he currently supported Haytham sat up and smiled. When he was young, he helped teach the younger children to scale the small training walls in the Assassin village. Even after his relationship with his parents had started to fall apart he still enjoyed working with the children.

Maybe this little one would not look so scared if he spoke instead of staring, “Good morning.” He peered at it, trying once again to determine a gender. Yes, he had enjoyed working with the young ones, but that was many years ago and Assassin clothes tended to fit the body better. This child wore a baggy shirt and trousers, as had the others from what he hoped was the previous day. It had obviously been bought in hopes of the child growing into it.

Large blue eyes met his from beneath a curly mane of hair and he realized it was a girl. She did not seem inclined to speak. Instead she placed a bowl of lumpy porridge on the chair just inside his arms reach, stood and stared at him for a moment, and then turned and fled, her bare feet kicking out behind her in the unhindered gait of the young.

Good men are trusted. The Blacksmith’s words came back to him and Haytham’s smile vanished. He sighed deeply.

Haytham shoved philosophical thoughts from his mind; it was far too early for such contemplation. He reached out and grabbed up the bowl. It had been a long time since he actually ate porridge. In New York he typically just ate hardtack as he went about his business. Bracing himself he scooped up a small bite. The texture was just as miserable as he remembered, soft and chunky with irregular lumps. But, the flavor was not completely terrible. Whoever prepared it had added honey and the subtle sweetness on his tongue was pleasant.

“Oh, good you’re awake,” A small man in a waistcoat that was likely once quite nice but was now just worn, stepped into the stall. “I was worried you might sleep today away as well.” His words, which might have been harsh coming from another man, held no censure.

“I thought I might rejoin the world of the living,” Haytham agreed dryly. The man chuckled.

“Everyone will be glad to hear it.” Now, that was strange, Haytham thought, why would people he had never met worry for him? Surely not on his own merit. For Connor, perhaps? But, the boy had made it very clear that he did not care about Haytham. He was in the stables, for God’s sake.

“Oh, how rude of me,” the man interrupted his thoughts, “I’m Lyle White, the doctor around these parts.” He pushed his spectacles back up his nose. _White_ , Haytham knew that name…. Where had he heard it before?

“Have we met, Doctor White?” the other man’s face seemed to fall a bit. He looked suddenly nervous.

“Ah, no,” he looked down at the floor, “But, I am sure you have heard rumors about my medical skills, or I suppose my lack of medical skill might be more precise.”

The White Death. Yes, Haytham knew those stories.

“I assure you, rumor is as far as it goes,” Doctor White hastened to explain. Haytham set down the bowl.

“I am sure that Connor would never allow a man he felt a threat to reside here,” even as he said the words Haytham realized the truth in them. Connor loved these people and would not have any harm come to them. He mentally adjusted the plans that were beginning to form to account for this fact.  “I am Haytham Kenway, if no one has told you my name as yet.”

The doctor smiled at him, “Thank you, sir, it is a pleasure,” he said a little roughly. He cleared his throat, “Now, let’s see how your wounds are coming along.” He began to unwrap the tight bandages around Haytham’s shoulder.

A short time later Haytham stretched, feeling the dull ache from having his would cleaned but also infinitely batter for having some of the dried on sweat removed from his body in the process. A bath would be heaven, but he knew that was a long time coming.

“I would recommend that you go for a short walk and then rest for the rest of the day,” the doctor wiped his hands off on the cloth tucked into his apron. “Drink plenty of water. I will be by tomorrow around this time to check the bandages again.”

Haytham nodded, “Thank you, Doctor.” He levered himself to a sitting position and then to his feet. He swayed a little as the blood rushed from his head, but locked his knees and waited and the feeling soon passed.

The Doctor handed him a belt and small strip of leather. Haytham quickly tucked his shirt in and cinched the belt. It seemed he had lost a little weight during this whole affair. He tied his hair back, reveling in the feeling of being slightly more civilized. A jacket that was just slightly too large for him and his own boots and he was ready to venture out into the world.

“Just be careful not to overdo it,” Doctor White cautioned, “You are still recovering.”

Haytham inclined his head, “Of course. Thank you once more.”

 

* * *

 

“I have been meaning to ask you something,” Haytham leaned against the wall of the smithy as casually as he could. That walk from the house had tired him far more than he would like to admit.

Dave grunted. He grabbed a large hammer and began pounding at a small piece of red hot metal.

“I will take that as permission to continue,” Haytham said, “As I said, I have been meaning to ask how you knew who I am.” The hammering stopped. “I mean, my relationship with Connor is obviously not common knowledge.”

Dave set the hammer down on the anvil with a metallic thud.

“I met you once before,” he said quietly. He picked up the water skin that hung from the small hook affixed to the anvil and took a deep gulp to clear his throat.

“I do not recall.”

“You wouldn’t,” Haytham could not find any censure in the words. “I suppose you were newly arrived from London. You had that look about you.” Haytham thought he understood what Dave meant. He had noticed the longer he stayed in the colonies the more he was able to identify those who had just arrived. They looked shocked by the strange social stratification that was like nothing in England and the wildness of the land that butted right up to the cities. He generally tried to avoid them these days for fear of having to answer too many questions about colonial life from those who would latch onto him as a fellow Londoner.

“You were looking to have a sword sharpened and I was but an apprentice. My master assigned me the task. You were very particular about how I accomplish it.”

Haytham chuckled, that did sound like him.

“I thought you nothing but a prissy brit at first,” Dave continued with a smirk, “But you tipped me a gold coin for the work so I suppose you weren’t so bad.”

“I hope you’ll find that is true of me in most respects,” Haytham murmured.

Dave snorted. “I’m sure; anyway, I recognized you when your boy had me help bring you to the house. The resemblance between you two is only passing now, but twenty years ago you could have been brothers.”

Haytham really was not sure how he felt about that. Sure, if things had been different he might have enjoyed being a father. But, that fate was not for him. Connor was a man grown now, he did not need a parent, nor did Haytham wish to fill that role. He looked up to see the blacksmith giving him a strange considering look. Suddenly the man smiled.

“You’d best get back to the house,” Dave said, “You look tired.” He turned back to the anvil and by the time Haytham exited the workshop the rhythmic hammering once again filled the clearing.

Haytham did feel tired. In fact he was exhausted. It really was not right for him to feel this ragged when he had only been awake and moving for the better part of an hour. But, he was no fool. He knew he needed to rest to recover. It was just that it had been so long since he was last injured, he really was not sure how to not be doing something with every moment of his day.

He angled his feet back towards the house on the hill. More than anything at this moment he wanted to explore that house. Here he was, the colonial Grand Master of the Templar Order in the epicenter of assassin activity and a mere _locked door_ stood between him and knowledge. It was mildly obscene when he really thought about it.

Filled with renewed purpose, Haytham quickened his steps as much as he was able. His heart rate, a little on the fast side ever since he woke up, beat a rapid tattoo on his ribcage as he began to climb the long sloping hill from the main village to the house. Sweat broke out on his already clammy forehead. But, he did not pause. One thing his youth had taught him was that giving in to your body’s demands was weakness. As assassin had to be able to push his body past what he thought it could do, past what should be possible. That was one area in which the Templar doctrine fell short of the Assassin. They stopped with what was physically possible or, worse yet in Haytham’s mind, became too focused on the pursuit of knowledge and artifacts that they forgot how much of the ‘game’ was played on the ground between assassins and templar agents, each vying for physical control. It was a mistake he had tried to never make. Whenever possible he carried out the action that needed to be taken himself, and barring that, was at least present to see that it was done properly.

By the time he reached the top of the hill and climbed the final three stone steps he was gasping for air. But, he had made it and tomorrow the climb would be that much easier. He would not let his body be his master.

Haytham paused at the top of the stairs, glancing about for anyone who might comment on his approaching the house. No one. Excellent. He started up the path.

A slight flicker of movement in the corner of his eye and Haytham had instinctively angled slightly to the left, changing his destination. Out of the corner of his eyes he could see a young woman dressed in leathers perched on the second story balcony. She had been hidden from his initial search by a pillar. Leaning against the railing next to her was a musket. She watched him with dark eyes. The message was clear. Connor had made sure that the house was off limits.

But, now Haytham needed an excuse to be in the area. He cast his gaze about. There, to the right of the house there were three small gravestones. He could walk over there, examine them and then so rest for a while. Surely, that would not be cause to suspect him of foul play?

“Hello, Old man,” Haytham glanced down at the stone before he sat on one of the boulders a few paces away. “I always thought this would be how we next met.” Though, Haytham had honestly thought Achilles would outlive him. The old man had just seemed so strong the last time they clashed, weathered and filled with sorrow by the deaths of the Assassins of his order, but unbent and unbroken. It was truly strange to think of a world without Achilles Davenport in it.

“I am glad to have known you,” Haytham mused, “You were a fine example of an Assassin, one I strove to be like in my youth, and you were an excellent opponent.” He bowed his head.

“I think you were kind to my son,” the words escaped him in a whisper, “I do not love him, nor do I think I ever will, but I regret that he did not have a father. Thank you for doing what should have been my duty.”

He could not look back at the stone after that. He turned away. The gentle breeze pulled at the tendrils of hair that had escaped the tie and cooled the sweat that seemed to cover his entire body. Exhaustion pulled at his bones likes waves on the shore, taking a little more of him into the abyss with each pulse. The walk to the stables seemed both endless and instantaneous. Haytham did not even bother to remove his boots before lying down. Sleep claimed him.

 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Wow, so Connor was supposed to be here in this chapter too, but Haytham just stole the show. So, next chapter will be Connor's adventures in New York. 
> 
> Historical facts: ‘Hardtack’ or simply ‘tack’ (not to be confused with the bedding material….) was incredibly popular in colonial America. They were small crackers, basically saltines that didn’t spoil as quickly as regular bread. It was very useful for the long ship voyages or military rations. It can even be seen in Pocahontas (though not much else is right in that movie); John Smith gives it to Meeko when they first meet and then throughout the movie.
> 
>  
> 
> Medical Facts: Blood loss is a tricky thing; the Red Cross says that it takes 4-6 weeks to recover from donating just a pint of blood, but that everything except red blood cells is replenished in 48-72 hours. So, after that initial period you don’t feel anything from the loss, your immune system is just depressed for a while longer. Of course, all that is with a healthy modern diet, something Haytham does not have access to, and he did lose quite a bit more than a pint. In fact, I would say he probably lost somewhere around 35-40% blood volume in order to be unconscious for that long which in a man his stature is ~4 pints. He was unconscious through the worst symptoms (confusion, racing heart, sweat, general shock) and has probably replenished ~2 pints, or enough to be functional, but still weak. 
> 
>  
> 
> (Yikes, long notes today, sorry guys!)


	6. Churchyard Promises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: predominantly gen (past Ziio/Haytham), canon homesteader pairings (Myriam/Norris, Prudence/Warren)
> 
> Warnings: parent-child violence, but nothing past the level of the game, same with the general violence level, little to no sexual content (as of right now), general spoilers for AC3
> 
> A/N: This fic came about as a result of a conversation between my roommate and me about what we would have loved to see at the end of AC3. It is a collection of oneshots within the same universe and any important ordering and chronology will he noted at the start of the chapter. Happy reading (and feel free to submit anything you might like to see).
> 
> Chronology: Four days after Connor and Haytham's fight in the fort. Achilles has been dead about a month.
> 
> It's totally still Sunday. Yep, still sunday. Because if it wasn't Sunday that would mean I fell asleep while writing this and missed an update. Which I did not do. So, Happy Sunday!
> 
> (Seriously though, sorry about that, hopefully it won't happen again)

Chapter 6: Churchyard Promises

When Connor arrived in New York the first thing he did was seek out Dobby.  As her missive had indicated, she was waiting at the spot where they first met. She leaned against the whitewashed wall of the house, her neck scarf fluttering in the soft breeze. Her arms were crossed against her chest. Connor approached from the northwest.

“You made good time,” she observed. “I wasn’t expecting you’d arrive for another few hours yet.”

“And yet you were waiting.”

She shrugged, “Call it a hunch; you’ve never been late before. Besides, I didn’t have anything better to do. Thought I might take a bit of a nap if you took much longer.”

One corner of his mouth curled upwards, “I am sorry to have prevented your rest, Dobby.”

She snorted, “You’re not, I can tell. I bet you wake people up for fun.”

Her words were so startling that he actually chuckled. It felt amazing to laugh out loud after everything that had happened in the last week, even if it did make his chest twinge painfully.

“Come,” he said when the chuckled died away. They began to walk towards the city-proper. “Why did you call for me? Everything is going well in the other colonies. The Templars lose more ground every day.”

She smiled at him. It was the same sort of tender smile Prudence often cast his way when she thought he wasn’t looking. Connor did not really understand what they were thinking when they looked that way, only that Ellen said it was a ‘good thing’ when he asked.  He thought maybe he remembered his mother smiling at him in that way, but like so much about her, that memory was only a faint image obscured by flames and smoke.

“No, this is about something a little closer to home,” Dobby’s playful mood seemed to suddenly evaporate, “Connor,” she hesitated, falling silent. Quickly she reached out and twined one hand in his and he had to resist the urge to pull away. The colonists were all so much freer with their little touches and affectionate gestures than Achilles or his mother had been.

“What is it Dobby? What has happened?”  Surely one of the other apprentices had not been hurt, they would have simply contacted him to say that they were recuperating were that the case.

“Haytham Kenway’s funeral is today,” the words tumbled from her mouth in a rush Connor struggled to make sense of.

When he realized what she had said he almost laughed again. How was that- It dawned on him that not only had his apprentices not known that he was there when Haytham Kenway supposedly died, but that they had no idea he was currently housing the man in his stable. He felt the slow creep of guilt advance ever so slightly.

Dobby stared at him, obviously waiting for some sort of response. He schooled his features and pulled his hand from hers.

“And?” He knew the word sounded curt and that Dobby did not deserve that, especially when his frustration was entirely directed at himself.

“Well,” she wrapped her arms back around herself. “He’s your da, innit he?”

Connor flinched. No! He wanted to cry. Haytham Kenway might have been instrumental in his creation but he was not his ‘dad’. The men of the village who taught him how to shoot a bow when his mother was too tired to do so, Achilles who taught him how to wield a blade for a purpose, even Sam Adams who taught him about society and how to blend in; all of those men were more his ‘dad’ than Haytham Kenway. But he could voice none of those thoughts so instead he jerked his head in what he hoped was a nod.

“We thought you should know he had died,” She explained, “Maybe you want to say goodbye?”

Connor rubbed one hand down his face. He wanted nothing less than to go to a false funeral and see people weep for a man who did not deserve their tears. But, Dobby was looking at him with wide eyes and the thought occurred that maybe Charles Lee would be there to pay his respects. Cold determination filled him.

He nodded. Dobby seemed to deflate, “Good,” she muttered, “Come on, I know where they’re holding it.”

 

* * *

 

 

 “-And it cost him his life,” the voice floated to Connor on the breeze. His head canted towards the sound. He knew that voice. He had played the few sentences he had ever heard the man utter over in his mind so many times, to hear it in real life once more was almost surreal. Dobby glanced at him lifting one eyebrow in question. He ignored it. She would likely find out everything soon enough.

From their vantage point at the back of the crowd the pair watched Charles Lee pace back and forth, gesturing expansively as he spoke.

“The Assassins are a cruel and terrible coven,” Dobby flinched.

“He’s a Templar?” She hissed to Connor.

“The Grand Master now that Haytham is gone,” Connor carefully avoided outright lying to Dobby about Haytham’s fate. He did not want the added guilt of an outright falsehood on his conscience.

“Holy hellfire,” she whispered. She stared with wide eyes at the man. Connor realized that for all the woman’s skills she had never really dealt with more than simple missions. Go here, help them, kill him. She did not realize the extent of the Templar web, how the tendrils reached every corner of the colonies. He felt suddenly terrible for introducing her to this world.

“Listen to me, Dobby,” Connor whispered, “I need you to go to Clipper if anything happens. Charles Lee will not kill me, but he will hold no such reservations for you.” He hoped he was not lying. Charles Lee did not seem like the type to kill his enemy in front of so large a crowd, he would not want to sully his image in that way.  Dobby nodded at him.

“You’ll meet us there?” He felt a surge of affection for the woman. She would follow his order because she had sworn to do so, but she would make sure that he was okay. If he did not show up at the tavern she would ensure that he was rescued from whatever mess he had gotten himself into. He nodded his acceptance of her condition.

“They speak only the language of death. Too late we learned the truth of this. Murdered by his own son, he gave his life as he lived it, in service to-” Dobby’s eyes jerked to Connor, but he did not have the luxury of explaining. Two soldiers were shoving their way through the crowd toward him.

“Go. Now, Dobby,” Connor hissed. He moved away from her, towards the soldiers.

“We will wait for you,” she whispered before slipped away.

Assured that Dobby, at least, was out of danger Connor allowed the soldiers to grab him by the upper arms and drag him forward. When they reached the edge of the crowd the grips shifted so that Connor stood before them. He felt the cold brush of steel against his neck as two flintlocks were pressed into his flesh.

Connor smirked. Charles Lee looked terrible. His hair was lank and thinning and his eyes gleamed, pale and moist. He looked like the monsters from the stories Connor had heard as a child.  The man glared at Connor for a moment before nodding to the two men on either side of him. There was a sharp rush of air and something made contact with the back of his knee.

Connor grunted in pain, falling to his knees against his will. He did not wish to look up at the man, did not wish to give him that satisfaction. Lee held up a vaguely familiar amulet.

“He gave this to me,” Lee whispered. His voice was harsh, broken by some emotion Connor did not know how to define, “Right before he sent me away,” a pause in which Lee breathed harshly, “that day at Fort George.”

Connor glared. So, Lee had been there, his information had not been entirely incorrect. Haytham had just been cleverer, quicker to act.

“H-he feared for my safety,” Lee continued, “I should have stayed. He said there was no danger.”

“He was wrong,” Connor tilted his head forward as he spoke, using the words as the weapons they were meant to be.  Suddenly Charles Lee was very close. Connor could smell his rank breath, hot and terrible on his face.

“I will kill you Connor, this I swear,” Lee glanced back at the crowd, “Not here though, not today. First,” he paused, a cruel smile slashed across his face, “First I’ll destroy all you hold dear.”

Connor looked away.

“I’ll burn that homestead of yours to the ground,” Lee continued, “and roast the severed heads of your precious founding fathers in its flames, and when I’m finished with them all the rest will burn as well, your merry band of assassins, the human refuse that lives on your land, your village and its people, all of it. Gone.”

Connor closed his eyes, caught up in the terrible world Lee painted with such broad strokes. He could see the blood on the ground, smell the flames as they ate everything he loved. Connor drew a deep breath through his nose, “You can try, but as with all your schemes, this too will end in failure,” he spat the last word into the space between them.

“Get him on his feet,” Lee gritted out through clenched teeth to the soldiers who still stood on either side of Connor. His next words were directed at them.

“He will wait, he will watch, and then, when he has seen all his life’s work brought to ruin, only then will I allow him to die. Take him away.”

For the first time since the soldiers spotted him, Connor struggled. But the two men were far stronger than him. They drug him away from the churchyard with little difficulty. As soon as they passed out of sight of Lee, Connor went limp in his captors’ arms. The sudden change in weight distribution loosened their grips and he was able to twist away. The hidden blade slid easily between the first’s vertebrae. He yanked it free with the slight twist required to grip the handle of the blade and slashed it across the second guard’s throat. They collapsed as one, blood already pooling in the dust. Connor slipped away.

Charles Lee would not be in the churchyard any longer. He was far too clever for that. Connor resisted the urge to begin searching for the man. Dobby would no doubt have reached Clipper and Stephan by now. He needed to go meet them and formulate an actual plan of attack. He had lost Lee too many times in the past because he acted hastily. That would not be the case this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Facts: I meant to include this one in Chapter Two, but forgot until just now. Money in colonial America was not as simple as the game would have us a believe (a fact Shawn alludes to in one of the conversations with him). Since the colonies were not in any way 'united' they each allowed different currencies and once independence was declared they each printed their own money. So, at the same time you had Spanish doubloons, English pounds, the "dollar" (an almost made up unit at the time just sort of used to standardize things), and any number of other coins floating around. In addition you have bank notes which were just promises to pay at some point. These could be used as money. So Bill might have a note that says Bob owes him 10 pounds but he needs to buy 10 pounds worth of fabric, so he gives the note to Mary and now Bob owes Mary 10 pounds and Bill is out of the picture. Given the situation, it makes sense that people actually preferred the guaranteed pure silver of a Spanish doubloon to any other form of payment. There was also simple trade-and-barter if you didn't have the means to deal with money. 
> 
> Whew, that was a long one....


	7. The Plans of Mice and Men

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hold on to your tricorns. This is gonna be a long one folks.
> 
> Pairing: predominantly gen (past Ziio/Haytham), canon homesteader pairings (Myriam/Norris, Prudence/Warren)
> 
> Warnings: Language (Dobby has a mouth on her, who knew?), parent-child violence, but nothing past the level of the game, same with the general violence level, little to no sexual content (as of right now), general spoilers for AC3
> 
> A/N 2: This fic came about as a result of a conversation between my roommate and me about what we would have loved to see at the end of AC3. It is a collection of oneshots within the same universe and any important ordering and chronology will he noted at the start of the chapter. Happy reading (and feel free to submit anything you might like to see).
> 
> Chronology: Five days after Connor and Haytham's fight in the fort. Achilles has been dead about a month.

Chapter 7: The Plans of Mice and Men

Clipper would never be considered a deep thinker, not in a traditional sense. His strength lay in knowing the patterns of the wind between buildings and how far a man might walk in the time between the musket ball leaving the barrel and impact. He could assess a thousand different factors that might affect a shot in a split second and was accurate to nearly one hundred paces. He knew when to fire and when to stay still and silent and wait for the best moment.

At this moment all those instincts were screaming at him to duck into shelter and wait out the storm. Of course, as he currently sat in a tavern with Dobby and Stephane that instinct was impossible to follow. Uncomfortable and wishing he were concealed on a rooftop, Clipper had curled himself into the corner and perched on the top of a small side-table someone had shoved out of the way. Stephane sat at the head of the long table that took up the majority of the room. The Frenchman was carefully avoiding looking at the last member of their trio as he sharpened his butcher’s knife.

Dobby, the cause of Clipper’s discomfort, paced at the other end of the room like a caged animal. From the moment she slammed the tavern door open, her hair escaping its bonds and her eyes wild, Clipper had just known that his good day was over.

“What the hell?” She snarled, not for the first time since her arrival. “I mean seriously, what the hell? How does he not tell us that he killed the bloody Grandmaster, who oh by the way, was his bloody da?!”

“To be fair, we did know zat Haytham was Connor’s père.” Clipper wanted to tell Stephane to shut up. It was not good to argue with Dobby when she was in this mood. The woman turned and glared at him.

“That’s not the bloody point, Stephane!” The chef held up his hands in surrender.

Clipper reached out and snatched up the drink that sat on the table next to him. None of them drank to excess anymore, not when Connor could call on them at any moment for aide, but one drink would not inhibit his ability to aim a musket and it might settle his nerves.

The door to the tavern swung open and Connor entered much more sedately than had Dobby. Clipper watched as he glanced about, eyes darting to each of the other three patrons and the barkeep before landing on the table the assassins had claimed. He crossed the larger room on silent feet, weaving around tables with grace Clipper envied. As he moved closer Clipper noticed that his grace seemed forced. Connor looked shattered, exhaustion bowing his shoulders and shadowing his eyes. His hood was pulled up.

"Dobby, is everything okay?" Connor asked when he was close enough that none of the other patrons might overhear. “Were you seen?”

Dobby whirled on him, “Oh, thank the Lord!” She threw her arms around him in a tight embrace. Then, before Connor could pull away from the contact she reached up and smacked the back of his head. “If you ever pull something like this again, boy, oh I’ll, I’ll,” she trailed off, glaring at him, “Well, I don’t know what I’ll do, but you won’t like it!”

Connor extricated himself from her hold. He spun the chair across from Stephane around and settled into it with his arms draped across the back. He rested his forehead on his arms.

“I know, Dobby,” he muttered, “I apologize for keeping you, for keeping all of you, in the dark.”

It seemed that Dobby’s anger was spent, at least for the moment. Clipper judged it safe to leave his perch. He moved to sit next to Stephane. Dobby declined to sit and instead leaned against the edge of the table, facing Connor.

“What exactly is happening, Connor?” Stephane asked.

Connor sighed, a soul deep exhalation that Clipper could entirely sympathize with. He rubbed one hand across his face, scrubbing at his eyes.

“Much has happened,” he explained, “You know of my plan to use the bombardment as a distraction to kill Charles Lee.” He spat the name with a viciousness Clipper had not known he possessed. “He was not there. Haytham Kenway had sent him away.” He lapsed into silence.

“You fought your père,” Stephane filled in for him when he did not continue speaking.

“Yes.”

“You killed him.”

Connor shifted in his seat at that and Clipper had a sudden, terrible realization.

“You didn’t…,” he whispered. Connor’s gaze jumped from the wood grain of the table to his own.

“He didn’t what?” Dobby asked. Clipper ignored her in favor of confirming his theory. Connor nodded ever so slightly.

“He is in a safe place,” Connor said.

“Wait. Who is in a safe place?” Clipper could hear Dobby starting to get annoyed again.

Connor took a deep breath, “My father is alive. He is someplace he can no longer trouble us, but he is alive.”

For a long moment Clipper thought Dobby might smack Connor again. She certainly seemed to consider it, if the small twitches in her hands were anything to go by. Then she took a long breath through her nose and clenched her fists closed.

“Is that wise-” Stephane laid one hand on her arm, a gentle grip that had the tension leeching from her form.

“Maybe you should explain about ze Templars?” He suggested

 “Miss Dobby! Miss Dobby!” The sudden shout startled Clipper into standing and backing away from the table. If it came to a fight he would want the distance. Connor had been teaching him how to fight with his hands whenever he had time, but Clipper knew he would never feel comfortable with that sort of close combat.

His caution proved unnecessary when a young boy ran up to Dobby. Clipper forced himself to relax but did not move back to the table.

“Miss Dobby, the man you told me to follow stopped,” the boy grinned up at Dobby, showing off a missing tooth. She reached out and ruffled his hair.

“Oh? Well don’t keep us waiting, laddie, where is he?”

“He’s at the docks, by the big ship they’re still building.”

“Dobby, who-?” Connor looked between her and the boy.

“I thought we might need to know where Lee was going so I asked my neighbor’s boy here to follow him.”

Connor nodded slowly, “Good thinking,” he admitted, “Are you sure that is where he is?”

The boy nodded, “Yeah! He’s got like a hundred thousand soldiers with him!”

Clipper snorted. He hoped he had not been as prone to exaggeration when he was that age. Still, there was probably a kernel of truth of the boy’s claims. Connor nodded seriously.

“Dobby, we need the others,” Connor stood from his chair.

She nodded, “Right. I’ll go send the pigeon.” She gestured to the boy, “Come on lad, let’s get you home to your mum before she has my hide.” She wrapped an arm around the slim shoulders and steered him away. Just as they were about to exit she paused and looked back over her shoulder.

“Be careful, yeah?”

Connor nodded mutely and she was gone.

Stephane stopped Connor as they were about to exit the tavern. Clipper hung back so he could hear the exchange.

“Are you sure zat he will not harm you?” For a moment Clipper was confused. Charles Lee wanted Connor dead, that much they all knew, even if the exact reasons remained unclear to any save Connor himself…. Then he realized Stephane was talking about Haytham Kenway.

“No, I am not,” Connor sighed, “But, I am sure he will not harm the people of the Homestead and I mean to prevent him from rejoining his brethren.”

“Yeah?” Stephan snorted, “How are you going to do zat?”

Clipper caught the flash of a very small, wry grin on Connor’s face before the young assassin turned away.

“I have no idea, Stephane.”

Stephane chuckled, “We will be waiting for your call.” He glanced back to Clipper and tilted his head toward the nearest rooftop. Clipper nodded. There was a ladder around the back of the tavern out of view of the patrolling soldiers. They could climb that and await Connor’s call for their support.

 

* * *

 

 

The next time Haytham woke he felt almost human. Unlike the previous two awakenings he had no confusion about where he was or what had happened. He even felt hungry for the first time in longer than he wanted to think about. He stood and stretched. The motion pulled at his healing wounds, but it felt almost good; the kind of pain that hurt at the moment but really made you feel better once it was over.

Haytham picked up the jacket he had been given the previous day. It was hardly appropriate to go out dressed as he was, but his only jacket that fit was not only torn in multiple places but covered in blood. He sighed and put the large, but clean, jacket on anyway. It would have to do for now.

“Good morning,” The voice startled him. Haytham cursed his senses, which were obviously not yet up to their normal standards. He turned toward the door to see a short man dressed in a hodge-podge of clothing. He wore a vest and a red cloth cap that had both seen better days.

“Good day,” he responded, “I don’t believe we’ve met?”

The other man chuckled, “Nay, not yet. Name’s Norris.” He held one dust covered hand out.

“Haytham Kenway,” Haytham took the hand. “It’s a pleasure.” After all, even if you were a captive, politeness never hurt.

Norris’ grin seemed to suggest he knew more than he was letting on, but all he said was, “Connor asked me to show you around, if you were up to it?”

Haytham felt grudging respect for the boy fill him; Norris was his guard, not his guide. Connor had trapped him in his own manners. He could not say no without alienating a potential means of escape, but to say yes was to agree to be accompanied everywhere he went. His son was far more clever than he let on.

“I would appreciate that, Norris,” he answered. “Shall we?”

Norris nodded and backed out the door, “We can start at the tavern. They’ll get you breakfast and Ellen should be there. She’s the seamstress.” They began walking down the path.

Haytham was impressed by how Norris managed to hide his discomfort. Were he not trained to read people he would not have even noticed how the man maintained a careful distance between them at all times, or how he seemed to relax when they entered the sight range of the village.

For his part, Norris was impressed by how polite Haytham was. From what Connor had told him the Templar order was peopled entirely by the scum of humanity. Haytham certainly didn’t seem all that bad, a little proper for Norris’ taste but not evil or anything.

He found himself thinking about Connor’s request just before he left.

_"Would it not be easier to simply lock him up while you’re gone?” Norris held out a package wrapped in brown canvas. “Here, this side is full.”_

_Connor took it and placed it in the other saddlebag. He reached down and began to cinch up the girth._

_“Perhaps,” he said after a long moment of thought, “But, then he will be a prisoner. He might act as such and attempt to escape.”_

_Norris poked the mare’s stomach to make sure she wasn’t holding air to make the girth loose. She turned and snorted at him. He grinned at her._

_"I would like to ask that you and Myriam continue to keep an eye on him,” Connor said almost hesitantly. Norris was nodding before the words were even fully formed._

_“Of course,” he said, “Myriam is having fun guarding the house.”_

_Connor smiled at him over the back of the horse, “Thank you, Norris.”_

_"Eh, it’s nothing Connor,”  Norris held the mare steady so Connor could mount, “Just come home, soon, yeah?”_

_I will try to do so.”_

Perhaps it would not be so difficult to contain Haytham after all. He seemed willing to cooperate so far….

They reached the tavern and Norris held the door open for Haytham who muttered his gratitude as he passed. Norris was relieved to see that Ellen was indeed there. She looked to be just finishing up measuring Doctor White for a new waistcoat.

“That’s Ellen,” he gestured to her, “She can get you a coat that fits. Connor said yours was ruined?”

Haytham nodded with a grimace. He really had liked that jacket. “I have no means to pay,” the words escaped him almost absently.

Norris chuckled again, “Don’t worry about that. Connor will pay for it.”

Haytham had no desire to be further in his son’s debt. But, he supposed in this case it might be necessary to preserve his dignity. He took a deep breath and approached the woman.

 

* * *

 

 

So close, he could almost…. Connor reached out, grasping at the tails of Lee’s coat as they raced across the upper deck of the burning ship. His fingertips kept brushing the fabric. He dug deep within himself, searching for a reserve of energy to put on that last burst of speed and-

The ground fell away, disappearing from beneath their feet with a crash. Connor hit the ground with a cry of pain. Something wasn’t right, something… The ship tilted and he rolled along the ground, battered by more debris. Hot fire took root in his side, burning him from within. He needed to get away. The flames could kill, would kill, had killed. He cried out again.

“Why do you persist?” Connor shoved a large piece of debris from on top of himself as Lee approached. Flames cracked at the edge of his hearing.

“You put us down, we rise again. You end one plot, we forge another.”

Connor felt along his side, searching to pat out the fire that ate away at him. His grasping fingers found no flame, only a piece of wood protruding from his flank. Horror washed over him and he tried desperately to pull it free. Lee was still talking.

“You try so hard, but it always ends the same,” The wood began to slid free, pulling ever so slowly from his body. His fingers slipped in the blood and he struggled to maintain his grip. It came free with a shallow squelch. “Those who know you think you mad. This is why. Even those men you sought to save have turned their backs on you.”

Where were Clipper and Stephane? Connor hoped they had not been in the ship. His fingers inched across the planks toward the pistol he could feel resting against his side.

“Yet you fight, you resist… Why?”

Connor grabbed up the pistol and pointed it at Lee with a shaking arm, “Because no one else will,” he snarled. He fired. Lee collapsed. For a brief moment Connor felt joy. He had finally done it; he had finally killed Charles Lee. Then the man moved. He stood. How could he be standing up? Connor despaired. Without another word to Connor Lee staggered from the ship.

 Time passed. How much, Connor would never know. He floated in and out of consciousness, waves of agony assaulting him. When he finally mustered the strength to stand it was on unsteady feet. A fog surrounded his thoughts.

“Rough night?” Connor looked up to find himself on the edge of the dock with no memory of how he arrived there. He stared blankly at the man before him.

“He headed inland, booked passage on a ferry up the river.”

“I will need passage as well,” Connor gasped. He was unsure how the man knew who he was or who he pursued, but had no other idea about where to find Lee. This would have to do.

The man evaluated him for a long moment before speaking again, “Of course, you need only say the word.”

Connor was almost numb when he reached the tavern. Everything, every thought, reaching him through a haze he could not seem to escape. He pressed his hand deeper into the wound on his torso. It was almost over, that he knew with a terrible certainty. The tension hummed across his skin and his heart raced.

He knew his steps were not steady as he approached the tavern door, but could not find the motivation to lift his feet higher from the ground than was necessary. All of his excess energy was being stored; saved for one final action.

The door creaked open at a touch from his hand. Connor thought the barkeep might have said something, but he could not understand the sounds that washed over him. They didn’t matter anyway. The only thing that matter was the man sitting alone at a table to the right of the door. For the first time since he was impaled his vision cleared. Charles Lee.

Painfully Connor crossed the room and pulled a chair out. His descent into the chair was more collapse than controlled motion but both men were past caring. Charles Lee took a long swing from the dirty bottle that sat before him. He held it out to Connor.

Connor did not normally drink. He did not like the taste of colonial alcohol and to dull his senses in that way was nothing short of stupid. But, his senses could hardly get any more dulled than they were at that moment. He would consider it the last request of a dead man. Abandoning his grip on his side Connor reached out and took the bottle.

It tasted foul. Bitter and coarse it burned its way down his throat. Connor set the bottle down and coughed violently. The harsh wheezes pulled at his side and he could feel more of his lifeblood sliding down his flank. He slammed the bottle back onto the table.

Connor took as deep a breath as he could. He reached out and gripped the back of Lee’s neck. Then, pulling him close he plunged his blade into the man’s chest. It pushed through the thin layers of clothing and flesh with no resistance. Lee gasped, a small sharp little thing, and his eyes widened. Connor could see the sudden disbelief reflected there. It seemed neither one of them was truly ready for this to be over. Without really meaning to Connor twisted the blade slightly as he withdrew it, taking a small savage pleasure at the flash of pain in Lee’s eyes right before the light dimmed. Lee slumped forward onto the table. Connor yanked the amulet he had seen his father wear from Lee’s neck.

It was over.

Connor stood and staggered out of the tavern.

 

* * *

 

 

Haytham exited the seamstress’ home feeling more refreshed than he had in far too long. His new jacket fit perfectly, resting across his shoulders in the light elegance those in England tried so hard to achieve. He would need to return to commission more items from her once he had access to his funds again.

Content to simply walk down the path and enjoy the sunshine on his face, Haytham crossed his arms behind his back. The shadow Connor had assigned to him was still there. Norris had left him when he and Ellen left the tavern to go to her workshop. The miner claimed he had business to attend to and that Haytham could find his way back to the stables himself. Soon thereafter he felt the eyes watching him from a distance. But, whoever it was (he suspected the woman in leathers he had yet to meet face to face) was far enough away that he could ignore them for the moment.

It was not until he reached the path that encircled the manor that he realized the feeling of being watched had gone away. He was alone for the first time since Connor brought him here. The house on the hill called to him. A small smile crossed his face. After all, who knew if he would get another opportunity to do this? It would be downright irresponsible to waste the chance now that he had it….

Decision made he started toward the house. Halfway there he heard a soft ‘coo’ and suddenly his face was filled with feathers.

Haytham flailed his arms, trying to repel the bird which seemed determined to assault him. It did not give up. Damn! Did the boy have the animals trained to halt his progress?! Even as he had the thought Haytham realized how ridiculous it was. He took a few quick steps back. The bird fluttered where he had been standing for a few seconds longer before floating toward him and landing on his shoulder. Haytham suddenly understood why Ellen had affixed a leather patch to the shoulder of the coat. Canting his head to the side he could see that the bird had a small wooden tube tied to its leg.

Feeling a strange sense of trepidation, Haytham pulled the tiny slip of paper free from the tube. He unrolled it and read the hastily written words.

_Norris,_

_Connor and Lee missing. Be alert._

_-S._

The slip of paper floated from his fingers to the ground. He needed a horse.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ages of Baby Assassins: Clipper – 25, Dobby – 45, Duncan – 51, Jacob – 42, Jamie – 37, Stephane – 38 (according to the AC-wiki for birth years and the fact that these events are happening in 1781)
> 
>    
> Historical Facts: Guns: The musket of the revolutionary war was typically only reliably accurate between 100-150 yards (that’s only 450 feet or 90 paces), so 100 paces is improving this range by 50 feet a distinct advantage during this era.   
>  
> 
> Accents: I’m normally against writing out accents since it is way too easy to offend someone or turn a character into a caricature of what they are meant to be. But, with the amount of dialog in this one, I felt like Stephane’s needed to be distinguished a little more than normal. The most obvious accent in English spoken by a French speaker is the ‘th’ sound being pronounced as a ‘z’ or ‘d’. ‘Th’ is actually a problematic sound for many non-native speakers of English as it is not a sound in many languages and so is a pretty good place to mark an accent. I have tried to balance Stephane’s accent by including Dobby’s dialectal variations and Connor’s relatively formal speech. I am not, however, going to use the appropriate syntax of the era as that rapidly becomes cumbersome and unreadable (the game even tones it down from what was really spoken).


	8. The Camel's Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: predominantly gen (past Ziio/Haytham), canon homesteader pairings (Myriam/Norris, Prudence/Warren)
> 
> Warnings: Language, parent-child violence, general spoilers for AC3
> 
> A/N: This fic came about as a result of a conversation between my roommate and me about what we would have loved to see at the end of AC3. Happy reading (and feel free to suggest anything you might like to see).
> 
> Chronology: Five days after Connor and Haytham's fight in the fort. Achilles has been dead about a month.
> 
> A/N 2: Sorry for the incredibly slow update guys. It seems life just didn’t want me to find a good wifi connection/time to update. It’s been a crazy week. I graduated from college on Friday, spent Thursday through Monday at my grandpa’s house (no internet connection at all since I’d already hit my data limit on my phone), and then drove halfway across the USA from my hometown to where I’ll be attending graduate school with my dog and little sister in the car. Updates should resume as normal from here on out. I’ll try to be better about pre-warning if I know I’m going to miss one (or more) of them though. Anyhoo, to the story!

Chapter 8: The Camel’s Back

The sense of urgency that filled Haytham was unlike any he had previously experienced. He wanted to leap on a horse that very moment and rush to New York. He wanted to wring Charles’ neck for putting himself in what Haytham was positive was unnecessary danger. More than that, he wanted to ensure that his closest friend remained among the living. However, no matter how much he wished to be in New York searching for his wayward protégé, Haytham refused to abandon good reason. He picked up the scrap of paper which had brought the news and slipped it into the pocket of his new jacket. He had no desire for one of the assassin-loving residents of this land to find it and interfere. Once he ensured that he would be free to take care of the problem on his own, Haytham turned toward the stables.

His explorations the previous day had told him that there were normally two horses housed in the stables. The light roan mare with the calm gaze would have been his first choice, but she was gone. It seemed Connor had good taste in horses, if nothing else. The other was far less desirable. The huge, irregularly splotched gelding had a slightly swayed back and scars on his sides from someone's overuse of spurs. When Haytham approached the stall the gelding's ears lay flat against his head and his eyes grew wide. The name plaque on the stall claimed the beast was called Awe:ri. Haytham had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. Even the damn animals had impossible names.

He was experienced enough with horses to know that this was not one to be approached without caution. The beast reminded him of the ugly nag he had learned to ride on so very many years ago. Beauty, his father had called her in what Haytham would later appreciate as the highest of sarcasm. Haytham still had the small scar on the back of his arm from where Beauty bit him when he forgot to properly secure her to the hitching post. He had learned after that to always prepare for his riding lessons with a pocketful of sugar and an apple. Of course, neither of those bribes were currently available to him, nor did he wish to spend the time searching for them. He doubted Connor had any sugar anyway, rare as it was these days.

His father had never needed the treats to gain the beast’s obedience. A soft word and a gentle scratch behind the ears from the man and Beauty was his to command. Haytham called upon those memories as best he could and approached the stall.

“Uh, good day,” he tried. It felt supremely awkward to be speaking to a horse as if it could understand him. Large ears flicked towards him but the animal did not move any closer.  “I would greatly appreciate it if you might do me the favor of,” Haytham trailed off, “This is bloody ridiculous.” He stepped forward, “Look, I need to go someplace and you are going to take me there.  You will not bite me, nor will you attempt to throw me from your back. Is that understood?”

The beast snorted at him but did not pull back when Haytham thrust out his hand palm up and fingers flat. It eyed him carefully for a long moment before pressing the soft velvet of his nose into the proffered hand. When it pulled away without even attempting to bite him Haytham knew he would be safe to enter the stall.

After that, events progressed far more rapidly. The saddle and saddle blanket of the proper size for the large horse were stored in the stall and, to Haytham’s surprise it seemed the animal was inclined to be cooperative now that they had been ‘introduced’. Finally ceding a little dignity to his sense of urgency he threw the ratty, but serviceable saddle blanket across the swayed back and settled the light saddle just behind the large group of muscles at the base of the horse’s neck. Then, girth tightened and bridle slipped on, Haytham placed one foot in the stirrup and pulled himself onto the horse with a quiet grunt of pain at the strain on his shoulder. Without further ado he slapped the reins against the animal’s shoulders and turned towards New York.

 

* * *

 

_Every time he drew breath fire raced from his gut and coursed throughout his entire being. He lacked even the capability to truly comprehend the events of the day, knowing only that he was done and could finally rest. Rest. Oh, how sleep sounded good; to lie down and close his eyes and just not_ be _anymore. His heavy lids slipped closed and he stumbled, tripping on the roots and chaff of the forest. Blindly, for he no longer understood that which his eyes perceived, he reached out and arrested the fall._

* * *

 

The gelding could not maintain the pace Haytham requested of it for much longer. Foam sprayed from its mouth with every labored breath, flecking Haytham’s hands and forearms with drops of spittle. He could not have said how much time had passed since he spurred the beast from the stall and escaped the Homestead for the first time since his arrival there five days previous. His mind had been so wrapped up in thoughts, worries about what he might find in New York and how he might deal with those findings.

A shuddering breath passed through his mount. It stumbled and Haytham knew that to try and push it any harder would mean the death of the animal. He found himself reluctant to allow that. It was by no means a beautiful beast, but after its initial reluctance it had served him well with no hesitation. Looking ahead he could see the edge of a tavern yard around the bend in the road. He would stop there and surreptitiously trade horses. This late in the day there would be any number of horses in the attached stables, their owners happily tucking into a hearty stew and mead by the fire. While they were thus distracted, Haytham would slip into the stables and steal a new horse. Haytham’s very bones longed to join those within the walls of the tavern. He wanted to sit in his drawing room in the house he kept in Boston with a large glass of French wine and his feet warming by the fire. Haytham sighed deeply as he pulled back on the reins slowing the horse. He swung down from the saddle and led the horse off the road. Once assured that he was out of sight of any passers-by he reached up and scratched behind the horse’s ears.

“Thank you for your service.” The awkwardness of speaking to an animal was still there, but now Haytham could see the gentle spark of intelligence in the large brown eyes. Besides, the horse did deserve thanks for its work. Gently Haytham removed the bit from between the horse’s teeth. He tied the reins to a small leather loop on the saddle tree so they wouldn’t catch on anything. Then, without a backwards glance he slipped into the woods. The horse would find its own way home, of that he was sure.

The tavern was obviously a nice one; the last bastion of civilization for travelers leaving New York for the wilds. Haytham smiled. Good, a nice tavern meant wealthy patrons and quality mounts. As he approached he began to notice that something wasn’t quite right. A few men milled about outside chattering in excited voices and gesturing back towards the door. More were entering the stables with packs and saddle bags slung across their shoulders, casting nervous looks about.

Haytham sighed; there went his plans of quietly acquiring a new horse…. New York was still far too distant for him to walk. But, the river was nearby. Perhaps there was a ferry or a boat for hire. He had no money on him but he would cross that bridge when he came to it. First he needed to speak with the barkeep and find out if there was a ferry and where it might dock.

He crossed the courtyard. His shoulders tensed more and more with every whisper that his ears caught. The people he passed seemed scared. Haytham braced himself and pushed the tavern door open. At first it seemed the people outside were reacting to news of events happening elsewhere. The tables stood in neat rows, drinks abandoned half finished upon them, chairs slightly askew. Haytham cast his gaze about but did not see the tavern master anywhere. But what he saw when he looked to his right stole the breath from his chest.

Before him, slumped across a table set apart from the others, was Charles Lee.

 

* * *

 

_As his leaden legs continued their forward momentum, he wondered what he was doing. If he was so tired would it not be better to lie down and rest? He could wake up and continue the journey refreshed. He might have followed through with this plan had he not glanced down at his side. Red. All he could see was red. Spreading out from his stomach it covered the entire right side of his body, staining the white material of his coat. He swallowed roughly. That much red was probably not a good thing, of that he was sure._

* * *

 

Haytham forcibly resisted the urge to hyperventilate. He crossed the room in three quick strides and pressed fingers he would never admit were shaking into Charles’ throat. Nothing. He pressed them deeper and still found nothing. Charles was dead. Charles was dead and Connor was nowhere to be seen. The events of the day coalesced in his mind. Cold fury filled Haytham.

Charles had been his friend, confidant, and right hand man for the last twenty-five years. He could not even begin to contemplate life without the man at his side, nor did he want to.

It was time to end all this. He had spared Connor’s life out of some misplaced sense of paternal duty. That reasoning no longer held sway with him. Connor had killed Charles Lee and Haytham would exact his revenge for that act. The Assassin’s needed to be stamped out before they caused irrevocable damage If he acted now, Haytham might be able to prevent the boy from undoing everything he had worked for over the last quarter century.

With this thought fixed firmly in his mind Haytham began searching for clues to Connor’s location. While Charles was no master of the killing arts, he could defend himself. Surely he would have scored at least a minor hit? Haytham’s faith in his friend was rewarded by the large blood stain on the chair next to Charles. It seemed not only had Lee defended himself, but he had done so with far greater success than Haytham would have expected.

Now that he had a starting point, Haytham could follow the sporadic trail of blood drops from the table where Connor had murdered Lee to the tavern door.

“You will be avenged, Charles,” he promised quietly. “I brought you into this life and you have always been loyal. You-” Here his voice broke and he had to take a moment to compose himself before continuing. “You were a good friend and a good man. May the Father of understanding guide you on one final journey.” With that he reached out and brushed his hand across Charles’ eyes, ensuring that they were closed. “Goodbye, Charles.”

He left the tavern without another word.

* * *

 

_His feet were suddenly wet and cold and he looked down, surprised by a sensation other than pain. Shallow water swirled around his ankles. When had that happened? He wondered. He looked for the green and brown blur that was the shore and turned his weary feet in that direction. Not much longer, something within him whispered. Soon he would rest._

* * *

 

It was strange, Haytham mused as he inspected what was either drops of blood or mud from the nearby creek. The day was almost perfect, cool enough to be uncomfortable in the abundant shade created by the setting sun but when those last rays of daylight hit his shoulders through the branches it was warm and he could close his eyes and almost forget Charles was dead. Almost. He rubbed the mystery substance between his fingers. It was gritty- not blood then. Haytham sighed. He had never been very good at tracking in the woods. He sat back on his heels. Surely Connor would not have been actively hiding his tracks. After all, he would have no reason to suspect that he was being pursued.

Haytham took a deep breath, trying to calm suddenly turbulent emotions. The mere thought of the dangerously misguided assassin infuriated him. But, anger would not help him in his search and would only serve to distract him when it came time to end it and kill Connor. His right fist clenched in anticipation of the action.

Connor would die. Haytham would never have to return to the thrice damned stable. He would go back to Boston and begin his work anew. His life would go back to how it had been and he would be happy.

He _would_ be happy.

He would.

Unbidden the image of Ziio’s face the last time Haytham had seen her appeared before him. The light dusting of freckles stark against skin devoid of its normal rich tone. He had reached forward and brushed the pad of his thumb across one of her cheeks. Hair that had frayed loose from her habitual braids tickled his wrist. He smiled at her, attempting to elicit a reciprocal quirk of the lips. She reached up wrapping calloused fingers around his wrist and holding it in place as she stepped away. Her eyes shone with what he thought was disappointment.

Suddenly Haytham forgot why she had actually been upset with him all those years ago. He forgot everything except the terrible look in her eyes. He thought about Ziio’s reaction to the knowledge that Haytham had killed their son. Of course, he had never known what she was like as a mother. But, Connor’s fierce defense of her and the raw agony in the boy’s voice spoke of a close relationship. Haytham realized that he really didn’t know all that much about Ziio. They had known one another for such a brief time. He had no idea what foods she liked or what she looked like when she cried. Sorrow filled him. If he killed Connor right now he would never know any of that.

He shoved thoughts of Ziio out of his mind and instead focused on Charles. He brought forth the image of the other man that he held most dear. A young man, mustache and hair neatly trimmed, clothes clean and practical, eagerly introducing himself on the docks all those years ago. That youthful enthusiasm for their work had sustained Haytham through much and the memory of it helped to banish thoughts of what Ziio might do to him were she alive.

He stood from his crouched position and turned in a slow circle, looking for the trail he had lost not long after entering the woods. The gentle sounds of splashing reached his ears. He decided to get a quick drink of water from the creek before continuing on his way.

Halfway there the wind rose, swirling through the trees. Branches rustled for a few seconds before the wind ceased and Haytham continued on his way. It took a long moment to register that the rustling noises had not stopped when the wind had.  He froze. The rustling came from his left.

As silently as he was able, Haytham crept though the underbrush. He crawled under a large bunch of thorns, hissing when a few caught his hair. The momentary pain was forgotten when the source of the noises was revealed. Not six paces in front of him Connor staggered in a wavering line.

Haytham took a moment to study the enemy he was about to confront. Connor’s shoulders were slumped, his head bowed. One hand pressed tight to his side, most likely attempting to stem the flow of blood Haytham could see staining his overcoat. His face was set in a grimace of pain and all Haytham could think was, _good, let him hurt, let him feel the pain before then end_.

With that thought he surged from the bushes, crossing the distance between them and gripping Connor’s collar with one hand while the other found the hilt of the long knife Connor carried on his belt. In the next moment they were on the ground, Haytham’s right knee pressed into Connor’s abdomen on the opposite side of the wound. His right hand held the boy’s hands in place while the left held the blade against his throat. They had been in almost this same position not a week ago and he had failed to act effectively. He would not fail this time.

All he had to do was twitch his wrist and this would all be over. It was simple. He had done it for the first time when he was ten years old. But something stayed his hand.

He thought of the gentle smile on Prudence’s face when she offered him the bowl of breakfast and the ferocious way in which the blacksmith protected Connor. He thought about how the residents of Connor’s land would gather together around a hole in the ground and the preacher would say a prayer that Connor’s soul would find those of his people. Ellen would cry and her daughter would hide her face. Suddenly Haytham realized he could not do it. He couldn’t kill Connor. In defiance of this realization he pressed the stolen blade deeper into Connor’s flesh. A thin dribble of blood welled up and snaked down the young man’s neck.

With a wild cry Haytham flung the knife from himself deep into the woods. He toppled to the side of the prone assassin, gripping his head. Why couldn’t he do this one thing, this simple task?

He closed his eyes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Facts: Horses were a vital part of life in the 18th century, in fact if you live anywhere near the frontier they were necessary in order to survive. Noticeably smaller than today's horses the perfect mount would not only be able to help on hunts (as part of a string which would carry riders, game, and supplies), but also do farm work (oxen might be strong, but they're also dangerously stubborn and have far fewer uses than a horse), and help fight off your English oppressors! In all seriousness, you don't want a spirited thoroughbred stallion. They look nice, but a calm, obedient mare or gelding ('fixed' stallion) who won't be distracted by mares in heat will serve you better in the long run. Saddles have not changed too terribly much since colonial days. Technology has advanced to make them more comfortable for both horse and rider but the general form is the same. English saddles were invented to replace the heavier pommeled saddles popular in Europe in the early 18th century. They provide maneuverability for both horse and rider through a small side and relatively thin overall form. They are still used today for virtually all riding competitions and sports with slight variations to accommodate different demands on them. In the 18th century the other main saddle was called the Plantation. Much like today's "western" style the plantation was heavier than the english and meant for longer periods of riding. 
> 
> Language: Awe:ri – “heart” or “brave soul” according to the (very basic/limited) Iroquois dictionary at my university library, “heart” is the likely correct interpretation and is meant in the anatomical sense not the metaphorical, but I personally like the second one more for this specific animal.


	9. Return and Realization

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Description of life-threatening injuries and 18th century medical procedures (once again I don’t think this is any more graphic than the game and I wouldn’t consider it ‘gore’ but just in case….)
> 
> Pairing: predominantly gen (past Ziio/Haytham), canon homesteader pairings (Myriam/Norris, Prudence/Warren)
> 
> A/N: So, I’ve got family coming into town in the next couple of days to stay for quite a while but the next chapter is already complete and the one after that is half done. The update schedule is going to be modified to accommodate the family’s visit. From here on out I’ll be updating every Friday. Sorry about this y'all. As always, I appreciate all the reviews and favs and if there is ever a scene you want to see drop me a line (I love those little ideas and if they don’t fit in here I might write a oneshot!)

**Chapter 9: Return and Realization**

By the time Haytham was able to pull himself from his stupor full dark was upon them.

Haytham debated how he would transport the injured man. Connor was at least two inches taller than himself and solidly built. Still not fully recovered from his own injuries, Haytham knew he would not be able to carry Connor for any significant distance. He wasn’t even quite sure he could currently _lift_ Connor, much less carry him. Beyond his own lack of strength, he worried about causing Connor’s injuries to worsen through the strain.

As he sat there fretting and accomplishing nothing, the horse he had stolen from Connor approached and butted its head against the back of his injured shoulder.

Haytham glared at the animal. That hurt.

“What?” he snapped, patience worn threadbare by the trials of the day. The horse moved to nudge him again. Haytham dodged. It held his gaze for a moment before its legs folded and it settled on the ground next to him. The warmth felt good against his aching back and he leaned into it.

How long they sat in this way Haytham did not know. The thick branches above them obscured the movements of the stars and moon. Eventually it dawned on him that the horse was there and could likely carry two people so long as they didn’t try for speed. Briefly he wished for a length of rope to tie Connor to the saddle so he could lead the horse instead of holding the assassin upright. But that was not possible. They would have to make do.

It took some maneuvering but Haytham managed to settle Connor astride the horse with much less difficulty than he anticipated. Then, with one arm locked around Connor’s middle and one holding the reins Haytham clucked for the horse to stand and they started off.

The night that followed could only be described as a personal hell for Haytham. He knew that it would be what all other rides or journeys would be judged by. He was sore and tired and no matter which arm he used to hold Connor in place it caused his shoulder to tense up. The entire time he could feel Connor bleeding sluggishly onto his stomach and arm, a distinctly uncomfortable feeling and one that caused something in him which he could not identify to rally and wish to spur the horse onward to greater speeds.

The sun had just crested the tops of the trees when Haytham caught sight of the whitewashed church steeple. The arm wrapped around Connor’s chest tightened. They had almost made it. He did not know where the doctor lived, but the horse seemed confident in its steps so Haytham allowed it to choose their path.

The fog that had overcome him in the forest was back, obscuring his thoughts and sapping his energy. He was far too old for all this….

“What the-”

“Mon dieu.”

Hands grasped at his legs. The reins were pulled from his grip. Haytham forced his gaze to focus. Norris and a man he had not yet met stood next to him. Norris was reaching for Connor, his gaze locked on the bright red stain on Connor’s front. He shot a dark look at Haytham.

“I have an empty room on the first floor of the Inn,” the unknown man said to Norris. Ah, the innkeeper then.

Haytham sat back as Norris slid his hands around Connor’s torso and pulled. All three men jerked in surprise when Connor cried out weakly at the motion. Haytham ignored his own protesting muscles and swung from the small saddle. He landed on the ground next to Norris with a light puff of dust.

“Connor?” Norris and the innkeeper continued to maneuver Connor from the horse as Norris spoke, “Connor lad, can you hear me?”

Against his will Haytham found himself leaning forward slightly in hopes of a response.

“Uh – Nor-?” Connor’s eyes opened to mere slits. He struggled weakly against their grips.

“Oliver, let him go,” Norris ordered, “I’ve got him.” Haytham watched as Oliver stared at Norris for a moment before slowly lowering Connor’s feet to the ground. Norris nodded to him.

“Thank you. We,” he glanced to Haytham and back again, “can get him inside. If you’ll fetch the doctor?”

Oliver nodded rapidly and fled.

“He doesn’t really like blood,” Norris explained almost absently. He slipped one arm around Connor’s back, bracing the other on the uninjured side of his torso. Connor slumped heavily against him, barely conscious.

“You and I are going to speak later,” Norris hissed to Haytham.

“I will endeavor to suppress my excitement.” Haytham drawled. “Until then, will you accept my help or would you like to do it yourself?”

Norris glared at him over the top of Connor’s head. They stood in that way for almost a minute before Connor stirred slightly and broke the spell.

“I could use your help,” Norris finally said, voice grudging. “Connor is not exactly a small guy.”

The trip from the courtyard to the room Oliver had for them seem to both pass instantaneously and take longer than the ride Haytham had just completed.

Doctor White rushed up to them followed closely by the heavily panting Oliver just as Haytham extricated a hand from his hold on Connor to swing the door open. Oliver reached around him and held it ajar. Haytham and Norris shuffled across the room and deposited Connor onto the single bed in the center.

“What happened?” the Doctor asked as he took tools from his satchel and lay them on the small table next to the bed. “Oliver, I need a pot of clean water and as many clean rags as you have.” Order given he looked to Haytham, “You were with him, correct?”

Haytham nodded once then, realizing his mistake, shook his head, “No, I found him.”

Doctor White nodded, “Was he conscious?”

Haytham thought about that. “Well, he was up and walking, but he really did not seem aware of his surroundings. He did not hear my approach.”

Norris’ head jerked up at that. His eyes narrowed and Haytham could see his grip on Connor’s arm tighten. The doctor made a small sound of acknowledgement.

Oliver appeared with a large bucket of water in one hand and a bundle of off white rags in the other. The doctor took a deep breath. Oliver nodded farewell to the room and fled.

“Alright,” Doctor White looked at Norris and Haytham, “Can I trust you both to hold him down?” Norris looked vaguely ill at the suggestion but nodded at the same time as Haytham.

“Good,” he smiled thinly, “Let us begin.”

He pulled a small, wickedly sharp blade from his belt. A quick dunk in the bucket and a swipe of a towel later he placed the blade against the smooth flesh of Connor’s left bicep.

Something deep within Haytham twisted when the blade sliced into Connor’s skin. He knew bleeding was a medical necessity before an operation, but surely the boy had lost enough on his own? Connor groaned and shifted but did not try to pull away from Norris’ hold on his arm.

As they watched blood continued to well up from the small cut only to be wiped away by Doctor White. The process left behind a small smear of red, bright against dark skin.

“That should be plenty,” he said a few minutes later. He took another of the rags Oliver had brought and wrapped it around the cut. Then, steeling himself with a deep breath Doctor White began to cut away Connor’s clothing. Each piece was tossed to the far corner of the room where it hit the wall with a dull slap.

When Doctor White removed the last scraps of fabric and revealed the wound on Connor’s stomach, Haytham had to suppress the urge to vomit. He had been expecting a knife wound, the small clean puncture made by the hunting knife Charles always carried on him.  What he saw was a jagged hole that was still bleeding sluggishly.  Small bits of woods clung to the torn flesh. Already the sickly sweet smell of infection rose from the wound. He heard retching and looked up to see Norris hunched over the chamber pot. The fetid smell filled the room, mingling with that of Connor’s injury. Even the doctor, experienced as he was in these matters, looked a bit pale. Haytham wondered if he had spared Connor’s life only to have him lose it slowly and painfully at the hands of the medical man.

“How was he still standing?” Norris asked. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

Not for the first time Haytham wondered just exactly how much Norris knew about Connor’s life. He wanted to say that an Assassin would not be stopped by a mere wound until all of his business had been completed. However, not only did that make it sound like he was actually proud of Connor (he _really_ wasn’t) but also as if he respected the Assassins as a group (which he supposed he did, but no one ever needed to know that). So, he settled for saying nothing. If Connor wanted to he could explain everything to Norris later. Or rather, Haytham amended, if he wanted to _and_ if he survived.

“I need to cut out the infection,” Doctor White looked apologetic as he spoke, “Mister Kenway if you don’t mind getting some of this into him.” He held out a small flask. “I wish I had some opium but we used the last of it on one of the boys earlier this month.”

“The hard stuff should do,” Norris assured, “Connor doesn’t drink.”

Haytham lifted Connor’s head from the goose down pillow. He poured the pungent liquid into the lax throat and closed his mouth. His pinched Connor’s nose closed and waited. After a few seconds instinct kicked in and Connor’s throat worked as he swallowed. Haytham repeated the process three more times until the doctor motioned for him to stop.

While Haytham had been occupied, the doctor had pulled out a thin blade. Even from a few feet away Haytham could tell that this one was far sharper than the one he had used to bleed Connor. Doctor White smiled apologetically at them both before looking down at Connor.

“Normally I would wait to do this. It’s best if the patient can try and expel impurities themselves. But, Connor already has a slight fever and the wound is so big,” he shrugged slightly, “I worry he might become too weak to handle the surgery if I wait.”

He looked to Haytham and it dawned on the Templar that Doctor White was asking for his permission to operate. He hardly felt qualified to make that judgment for Connor. They barely knew one another….

“Do what you think is best, Doctor,” Haytham finally murmured. The doctor nodded.

“Hold him,” he commanded, “This will be painful even if he remains unconscious and the more he moves the longer it will take.”

Then, without further ado, he slid the knife into the gaping wound and got to work. From the first moment Connor tensed under Haytham’s grip on his shoulder and thigh. He tried to ignore what was happening just to his left but the doctor’s quiet muttering provided a reference for how badly it must hurt.

“Just need to cut this bit- good, good, now here….”

Haytham winced and turned his attention back to Connor’s face. Far from the slight frown he had worn since they reached the room, Connor’s features were now twisting into something far more gut-wrenching.

Connor began twisting under their hands. He made small movements at first, side to side and then when that did not offer relief pressing himself into the mattress. A ragged whimper broke from his throat. The doctor’s motions stilled at that. Haytham looked up to see him staring in horror at Connor. He did not pause long however and returned to his work with a renewed fervor.

Connor let forth a hoarse scream and Haytham flinched back though his hold never faltered.

Suddenly it hit Haytham. His son was screaming in pain. _His son_.

The realization that Connor was the last flesh and blood relation living hit Haytham hard. His hands pressed deeper into Connor’s shoulder and thigh, fingers going bloodless from the force of his grip. The boy’s back arched from the bed.

“Hold him!” Doctor White snapped, his calm demeanor broken with Connor’s first cry.

Connor’s eyes were open, rolling back and forth in search of succor. They locked on Haytham’s own.

His son.

In that moment Haytham almost let go, he almost broke him own code and retreated from a battle. Just as he was about to do so the doctor mutter that he was almost done and Haytham managed to stay his feet. He could do this and when his services were no longer required by Doctor White he would escape to the courtyard and fresh air.

Doctor White pronounced them finished and Haytham released his hold. He nodded to the other two men and left without another word.

He crossed the main room of the Inn without looking to either side. Someone tried to hail him but he waved it off. Behind him he could hear Connor groan once more. He needed to get outside; the walls were suddenly too close.

Once outside Haytham closed his eyes and breathed deeply of air untainted by blood or illness. The sway-backed gelding raised its head from where it grazed and trotted over to him. Haytham had completely forgotten about the horse in the excitement of their arrival to the Homestead and getting Connor settled at the Inn. By the baleful look in its eye it knew he had forgotten.

“I apologize,” Haytham muttered. He reached up and scrubbed his fingers into the soft fringe of hair that fell in front of the mangy ears. The horse pressed into his fingers, huffing warm breath down his arm. Exhaustion swept through him. Unwilling to leave the general area of the Mile’s End just in case something were to happen, Haytham staggered over to the large pile of wood next to what looked like a bocce ball court. The horse followed him over. At least there were no longer any screams….

“If you insist on following me I’m going to need to call you something,” Haytham muttered. He needed something to get his mind off what was happening in the Inn. He started working his fingers through the short fur working out the small burrs and twigs from their frantic ride. “You performed admirably today, more than admirably to be honest.”

The horse tossed its head as he pulled at a particularly stubborn thorn. Haytham thought through possible temporary names for the horse. When Connor was stronger he would ask how to pronounce the actual name. It occurred to him that he was making plans to stick around for an extended period of time but he dismissed the thought with a quick rationalization; the Colonial Rite was all but destroyed and there was no reason for him to not stick around and gather information about Connor’s assassins before repopulating the depleted Templar ranks. Yes, that was why he was staying, or at least that was what he was going to continue to tell himself. The other thoughts that crowded at the edge of his mind were too complicated for him to deal with when he was this exhausted.

“I suppose you will have to be Horse for now,” Haytham finally said. It would be folly to name the animal one thing only to have to learn its true name as soon as Connor awoke. Horse snorted and started to nibble at the grass around the base of the wood pile. Haytham leaned back against the logs. He closed his eyes against the soft breeze. Soon soft snores escaped him.

That was how Prudence found him almost an hour later. She smiled at the way his mouth hung open; Connor’s did the same when he allowed his guard to drop enough to actually fall asleep in front of them. No one had said anything to her yet but she could tell that the two men were related in some way. Even if she hadn’t already guessed the way Haytham had situated himself outside where they were working on Connor to wait for news told her everything she needed to know. With regret she moved over to wake him. It probably wasn’t good for a man so recently injured himself to sleep in such an awkward position for long.

“Awe:ri what are you doing out here?” She asked, pitching her voice low enough to not disturb the sleeping man. Awe:ri was notoriously bad tempered with anyone except Connor and while he was allowed to wander to his heart’s content he rarely came down into the main town. The horse flicked one ear at her but did not otherwise acknowledge that she had spoken. He continued to munch at the grass near Haytham’s feet. 

“Haytham,” she said softly. He stirred under her hand.

“Oh, um, pardon me,” he wiped at his mouth with the edge of his sleeve, then, seeming to realize what he had just done, blushed deeply, “I suppose I drifted off.”

“I suppose you must’ve,” Prudence smiled at him, “You should go get some rest.”

Haytham shook his head. “No, no, I’m glad you woke me.” It was only early afternoon and he had no desire to be awake all night because he had napped during the day. He glanced back at the Inn.

Prudence considered the man before her. She could tell that he took pride in his appearance but not to the point of obsessing over it. He obviously hadn’t really realized that he was covered in the dark rust color of dried blood. She wondered if it was all Connor’s. Suddenly she wasn’t sure she wanted to go see Connor anymore.

“Is he alright?” She asked. Haytham’s gaze jerked from the Inn back to her.

He hesitated, “I cannot say for sure,” he finally said. “He lived when I came outside.”

Prudence swallowed. “Oh,” she whispered. He glanced at her hands and for the first time noticed the bowl held within them.

“Is that for Connor?”

She nodded rapidly, “But, I am not sure I can-”

Haytham crossed the space between them in two swift steps. Gently he wrapped his fingers around the bowl and pulled it from her grip. 

“I will make sure to send someone to tell you how he is doing,” he promised. 

She stared at him for a long moment before nodding. “Okay,” she swallowed, “Okay, thank you. I will pray for him.”

Haytham readied himself to reenter the Inn. It was time to stop being a coward.

 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Connor next time folks (he's even conscious and talking!). 
> 
> Historical facts: Medicine was fairly horrifying back in the day, as I hope this chapter has shown. Doctors typically learned their craft through the apprenticeship system and each had their own set of concoctions that they swore by as "cures" for the illnesses they encountered in everyday life. Mercury was considered by most people to be a cure-all and was used in wounds, poultices, and taken orally. Smallpox was a major problem, especially during the American Revolution when military camps sent what little hygiene there was packing. In order to inoculate soldiers against the disease they would find someone who was already infected, run a needle and thread through one of the pock marks, and then run that same thread under the skin of a healthy person. Surprisingly this often worked to prevent that person from getting the disease and if they did contract it, they tended to survive at a higher rate than those who had not been inoculated. medical facts to be cont'd next chapter. :)


	10. Returns and Realizations (part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A bit of a short one this week, but it's the second half of last weeks chapter and needed to end where it does. As always, thank you for the reviews, you guys rock.
> 
> Warnings: Description of life-threatening injuries and 18th century medical procedures (once again I don’t think this is any more graphic than the game and I wouldn’t consider it ‘gore’ but just in case….)
> 
> Pairing: predominantly gen (past Ziio/Haytham), canon homesteader pairings (Myriam/Norris, Prudence/Warren)

 

Chapter 10: Return and Realization (Part 2)

The last time he woke feeling this terrible was the day after his mother’s death. His throat hurt in the same way it had on that terrible day. For a moment he thought he could smell the smoke, hear the crackle of flames, then he shifted and all that disappeared in the bright core of pain at the center of his being. He thought maybe he whimpered. Suddenly cool hands brushed across his forehead. They grounded him in reality and Connor remembered that many years had passed since his mother’s death.

Quiet murmurs assured him that there no flames, no cause to worry. He slipped back into sleep.

\------

“He’s developed a bit of a fever.”

“Anything to worry about?”

A brief silence.

“The wound is beginning to heal well with minimal swelling, though I will probably bleed it again later today to try and head that off. But, a fever is always something to worry about.”

“What can we do?”

A deep sigh and even with his eyes tightly closed Connor could tell the speaker was tired almost beyond endurance. He shifted slightly. The dull ache in his abdomen became sharper so he stilled.

“Ellen left for New York to try and trade for some opium and frankincense but until she gets back we’ll have to make do with calomel.”

Connor gathered the frayed threads of his strength and managed to open his eyes. Doctor White stood just to his left speaking to someone outside his range of vision. Looking around the room Connor realized he was at the Mile’s End. After spending nearly a month of what little free time he had helping to build the structure he would be able to recognize the rooms no matter his own condition, even if the décor had changed since the last time he saw the inside of a room.

“Is he strong enough for calomel?” Connor jerked. That was Haytham’s voice. Suddenly the safe, warm feeling that being on the Homestead always brought him vanished. The tension thrumming through his entire body ignited small agonies.

Doctor White visibly deflated, “It won’t be pleasant for the lad, that’s for sure. But he’s stubborn and it really is the only method for protecting him from worse illness.”

Connor decided that no matter how much he hurt or how little he wanted to deal with the fact that Haytham was standing not three feet away from him, he really needed to know what exactly was going on. He opened his mouth to speak but all that would come out was a hoarse croak. It was enough. Doctor White was spun to face him and Haytham stepped into his line of vision.

Connor looked at Haytham’s tired face and suddenly everything that had happened recently was clear in his mind.

_He thought he was travelling north; north was towards home and help. That was where he needed to be. Of course the idea that he was going north was just that. He truly had no concept of where he was._

_His feet drug through the chaff. He knew he was hurt but the small droplets of red floating in the air around him were new…. He reached up with the hand no_ _t pressed to his side (why was it doing that again?). When he poked at one of the globules it split and each half spun crazily. It really was quite pretty, he thought. Something about that seemed wrong but he could not summon the energy to care._

_The background noise of the forest ceased. Connor stuttered to a stop. Huh, he was in a forest. Had he always been – A mass plowed into him and suddenly the agony that had hovered at the edges of his consciousness flared bright. It overrode everything else. In brief flashes he saw a shadow hovering over himself and felt a prick at his throat but neither could overcome the badger trying to burrow its way into his gut. He whimpered and tried it ask it to stop. Why wouldn’t it stop?_

He blinked away the memory, suddenly sure that it had been his father who had caught him in the woods. But, why had Haytham not killed him? Why bring him to where he could get medical attention? He met his father’s eyes, trying to suss out the reasons for his actions. The cold brown gaze told him nothing.

“Connor!” Doctor White exclaimed, “I’m surprised you’re awake.”

Connor nodded but said nothing. Now that he was truly awake he could no longer ignore the aches and injuries from his pursuit of Charles Lee. He wanted to go back to sleep. Doctor White placed his hand on Connor’s forehead. He fought the urge to pull away.

“How are you feeling?” He asked. Connor cleared his throat, trying to dislodge the phlegm that seemed to coat it from the smoke in the burning ship. Haytham held out a wooden mug filled with water. Connor stared at it and then at him. Haytham raised one eyebrow, challenging Connor to say something in front of Doctor White.

Connor took the mug, eyes locked on Haytham. He took a long drink before lowering it to his side.

“If I am truthful, Doctor White,” he rasped, “I am in a great deal of pain.”

The doctor nodded.

“Unfortunately we still have not received the order of opium you placed. Ellen went to try and get some but she’s not back yet. We have scotch,” he said as he slid his arm behind Connor’s back and lifted. He placed a thick pillow behind Connor and lowered him back down.

Connor gasped at the movement and shook his head, “No,” he panted, “I can handle it.” Connor could not interpret the look on Haytham’s face at those words. Disdain was definitely there. Then again, disdain was an ever present element of Haytham’s facial expressions towards Connor.

“Very well,” Doctor White nodded grimly, “Prudence has made a chicken broth for you. I want to give you some calomel against the fever but I would prefer for you to have something in you first.” He checked his watch, “I don’t want to go, but I need to go check on little Hunter. He was feeling a bit colicky this morning. I will return as soon as I may. Eat and rest while I am gone.” He hesitated at the door and opened his mouth as if he were about to speak before shaking his head and leaving.

Haytham and Connor stared at one another in tense silence. Connor shifted slightly in the bed. Haytham rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet once.

“Prudence brought it about an hour ago,” Haytham finally said. He picked up the soup from the small table it had been set on.

Connor stared at him. Haytham held out the soup.

“Well, I’m not going to feed you if that’s what you’re waiting for,” he informed the boy. Connor recoiled from the proffered bowl.

“Achilles said that Templars,” Connor spat the word with as much distaste as he could manage in his weakened state, “are not above using poison.”

Haytham felt his left eye twitch ever so slightly. He was going to develop a complex before this was all over, he just knew it.

“Would you believe I have not poisoned the soup if I try it?” he bit the words out through clenched teeth.

Connor shook his head, “What good would that do? You are probably immune to whatever poison you used.”

Fury rose in Haytham. Here he was, compromising his beliefs for reasons he couldn’t even really define to himself, and the boy had the gall to act like this? He slammed the bowl of soup down on the bedside table uncaring when it splashed on the cuffs of his jacket.

“That is enough!” he snapped, allowing his temper to get the better of him, “Before you speak of the dishonorable Templar Order and our purported fondness for poisons, first remove the poison darts from your own arsenal.” Connor leaned back against the headboard, eyes wide and fixed on Haytham’s. “Furthermore, if I wanted you dead you would be dead. I could have slit your throat in the woods or simply left you there to bleed out from your wounds. I could kill you right now and you would be too weak to stop me. Make no mistake boy, you are only still breathing because I have allowed it. You would do well to at least feign respect if you cannot muster the proper emotion in truth.” With that he turned on his heel and left the room. The stupid assassin could starve for all he cared. Haytham was so wrapped up in his thoughts he did not notice the small form slip away from the shadows beside the door.

As soon as he left the room his ire began to fade. It was ridiculous to be angry with the boy for this; if he had not acted at least a little cautious Haytham would have been severely disappointed. Achilles had trained him well. Besides, his son’s voice reminded him so very strongly of Ziio's, and unexpectedly, of his own father's. The young man conveyed a strange mix of extreme confidence and terrible self-doubt. Haytham thought that was probably not far from how his own had sounded at twenty-five years of age. This realization tempered his emotions and he took a deep breath. He would go for a walk to give Connor time to calm down and hopefully eat something.

 

Connor did feel better once he had a little of the soup in him. Prudence knew her way around a kitchen and even though it was just a chicken stock with a few soft carrots in it Connor enjoyed the dish immensely. Feeding himself had been awkward and difficult. His fingers felt fat and clumsy and he was sure that more of the soup ended up on him than in him. He only managed a few sips before he had to give up. He slumped against the pillow, exhausted and in pain.

He was glad that Haytham had left. Connor had no desire to be seen as weak or incapable in front of an enemy. Besides, his statements about saving Connor’s life gave the assassin a lot to think about and he could not do so if Haytham was there critiquing everything he did.

Once he was alone Connor began thinking about his father’s actions in the last two days. Somehow he had escaped Myriam and Norris’ watch and found Connor in the woods. Connor was not upset with the two for losing Haytham. The training Haytham had received from the Templars meant that they could never have stopped him if he had wanted to leave. He would have killed them without a moment’s hesitation. Connor had only asked them to watch him in hopes that sentries might discourage Haytham from making any escape attempts while Connor had to be gone. Obviously that plan had backfired. It did tell him something about the man however; rather than killing to escape he had snuck away with no one the wiser to his absence.

Connor also thought that Haytham finding him in the woods had not been the original goal of the man’s expedition. What he could not figure out was why Haytham hadn’t just killed him when Connor was obviously unable to defend himself. Twice now his father had professed to not only lack any affection for him but also to regret not killing him many years ago. So why not rectify that mistake?

The question haunted him, eating away at what little appetite he had managed to muster. Why was he alive? What did Haytham want from him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Facts: Fevers were a pretty big killer back in the days before antibiotics. I found a pretty interesting list of definitions of cures and maladies here: http://homepages (dot) rootsweb(dot)ancestry(dot)com/~sam/disease.html, from college courses and personal research this list appears to be pretty accurate (though if anyone knows otherwise, please let me know!)


	11. Dog Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hey y'all, so I got this chapter to my beta late and then she had real life things so it's late overall, hopefully Haytham makes up for it? Eh, I am sorry about being late, I'll try to do better about getting it to her with time to spare in the future. Sidenote: I don't think I've thanked my beta here yet: THANK YOU SO MUCH KRIS! You rock and I am quite sure everyone reading this appreciates you curtailing my dismal grammar and making it readable. Anyway, to the story!
> 
> Warnings: 18th century medical practices
> 
> Pairings: Gen (canon homsteader and past Ziio/Haytham)

  
Chapter 10: Dog Days  
  
Dawn broke on Davenport Homestead with the usual clamor of children chattering and birds chirping. Haytham stretched in the uncomfortable wooden seat at the polished bar of the Mile's End Inn. He cast a longing glare at the windows, simultaneously wishing for the world to just be quiet because it was far too early to deal with cheerfulness and to be out in the sun where he might actually feel human. He twisted, cracking his back and wincing at the sensation. He suddenly wished he had just given up a little pride the night before and gone back to the stable to sleep. At least there he had a bed. Sitting at the bar all he had to use were his arms and now his shoulder was killing him. His glare shifted from the window to the door between him and Connor.  
  
He had returned the previous night after taking a short walk around the grounds to find that Connor had fallen asleep with the bowl of soup still sitting three-quarters full in his hand. His head was slumped against the headboard of the bed and his free hand clutched his side. A frown marred his features telling Haytham that his sleep was not peaceful. Haytham stood in the corner of the room for a few minutes watching the rise and fall of Connor's chest before settling into one of the tall barstools. He was not quite sure when exactly he fell asleep.  
  
Doctor White exited Connor's room rubbing at his eyes and scowling. Haytham took a savage pleasure in the fact that it appeared no one had gotten a good night's rest.  
  
"Good morning," Doctor White muttered. Haytham grunted.  
  
"Connor is still asleep," Doctor White continued. He sat down next to Haytham. "I want to move him up to the manor today."  
  
That got Haytham's attention. "Is he strong enough for that?"  
  
The doctor nodded, "I think so. No matter what, I believe it will be a better healing environment. The Inn is noisy and might disrupt the sleep he needs."  
  
Privately Haytham thought that Connor's sleep was more likely to be disturbed by the number of people around him no matter how noisy or quiet it was. Once a person honed their senses to be alert to danger at all times it was hard to turn that skill off and busy places full of people you did not know were impossible to relax in.  
  
After Doctor White changed Connor's bandages they summoned Dave to help move Connor up the hill to the manor. It bothered Haytham to have to rely on others for this sort of work. When he was in full health he could move a man Connor's size unaided over such a short distance. At least Dave seemed not to blame Haytham for Connor's injuries. In fact, when he first arrived he had cast an assessing look over the two men before clapping Haytham on the good shoulder with a strangely knowing smile. It made Haytham feel exposed in a way he had not in a long time. He kept a carefully neutral look on his face to avoid showing how uncomfortable the perceptive blacksmith made him.  
  
The trip up to the manor, while normally not a long one, took far more time that Haytham had hoped it would. Dave walked with long careful strides, holding the sleeping Connor as if he weighed nothing. Everything about the image galled Haytham, though he could not place his finger on why. Halfway up the gently sloping path through the small village, Haytham realized that Connor had not even twitched when Dave picked him up. Suddenly worried that the boy was no longer asleep and instead had fallen into unconsciousness again, Haytham sped his steps to walk alongside Dave. He studied Connor.  
  
"He's just exhausted." Haytham's eyes jerked to the doctor who smiled back at him. "His eyes might be closed but he's not getting any real rest. That's why I want him in his own bed. I might not know exactly what the boy does with his time when he's not solving our little problems," he gestured to himself and Dave, "but I know he doesn't like to be around people for very long. Especially when he is not at his best."  
  
Haytham nodded; that he understood and agreed with.  
  
They reached the house with little trouble. Myriam materialized when they approached the door. She cast a quick glance over the small group and seemed to want to say something when her eyes lit on Haytham but in the end said nothing. She pulled a large key from her jacket pocket and unlocked the door. When Haytham stepped across the threshold after Dave and Doctor White she followed closely behind him. Her proximity meant he could not hesitate or examine his surroundings beyond stolen glances as they moved to climb the stairs.  
  
The home was surely far larger than Connor could need. His curiosity was only whetted when they reached their destination.  
  
Connor was settled into the large bed with little trouble. Myriam vanished just as silently as she had appeared on the porch and reentered the room arms laden with rags and a large copper pot filled with water. Dave brushed one hand across Connor's brow as he stepped away from the bed.  
  
"I'll visit with some of the lads tomorrow," he muttered to Doctor White and Myriam.  
  
"Of course," Lyle bobbed fractionally as he spoke. He picked up a few rags and dropped them into the water, "I'm sure Connor will appreciate the visit." Dave nodded to Haytham and left the room.  
  
"Now, to change the bandages and let the lad get some rest," Lyle smiled at Haytham and Myriam, "Myriam, would you like to help me?"  
  
"Sure, Doc," she stepped forward. Haytham thought he caught a note of relief in her voice, he resisted the urge to snort. Her suspicion was almost juvenile given his decision not to hurt Connor. But, he did not protest his exclusion. The memory of helping to clean the wound the previous day was still far too fresh in his mind.  
  
The heat of the day struck with sudden intensity. The windows which had been left open to tempt a breeze ceased to be of any use and only let in sunshine to warm the already stale air of Connor's bedroom. Haytham sat against the back wall watching Myriam bathe Connor's brow and wondering just what the boy did to earn such loyalty from people who seemed otherwise levelheaded and rational.  
  
"Lyle, does he seem warmer than before?" she asked.  
  
"It's probably just the sun shining on-" Doctor White cut himself off midsentence when he felt Connor's forehead.  
  
It seemed that Connor's condition rapidly deteriorated from that point. They pulled the windows shut and the curtains closed. The actions did little to decrease the heat of the room and made it feel more stifling than it had before. Connor was not sweating, despite the heat and even Haytham knew that that was not a good sign. He was far too pale with spots of color high on his cheekbones that had not been there that morning.  
  
"I do not understand," Haytham muttered looking down at Connor. The assassin could not move much but his head tossed back and forth and a small line had appeared between his brows. "He was sitting up and talking yesterday."  
  
Doctor White shook his head, "Yesterday was pure stubbornness on his part. This is what I expected to see with a wound as serious as his."  
  
Unable to do anything besides try and keep him cool and comfortable the three sat in uncomfortable silence save for the raspy sounds of Connor's breathing and the small rustles of shifting cloth.  
  
A silence, startling in its rapid descent and its completeness, filled the room. It seemed that even the birds outside the window had ceased their chatter. At first Haytham did not understand why Myriam's hands had suddenly flown to her mouth or why the doctor, so calm mere moments before, now fluttered around Connor's bedside like a small bird. The silence lengthened Haytham realized that Connor was not breathing. The realization stole his own breath from his lungs.  
  
Connor could die; not in some misguided fight for independence or prideful competition, but here in the stifling heat as his father and friends looked on unable to do anything to prevent it. The image that had stayed his hand two days previously appeared in Haytham's mind. This time he pictured himself standing among the mourners helping to lay his only child to rest. In his mind the preacher asked him to toss the first handful of dirt onto the simple pine casket. Bile rose in his throat. No. He would not allow Connor to give up.  
  
"Is there nothing you can do?"  
  
The doctor looked up from his inspection of Connor's face. "I- I don't think-" Suddenly he sucked in a breath, "Yes, there may be something." He gripped Connor's chin with one hand and opened his mouth. Haytham had seen a doctor in London demonstrate what he called "assisted breathing" almost thirty years ago. It had been during Birch's period of insistence that Haytham be a well-rounded student. During that time Haytham spent his free hours at any lecture he could attend, learning anything he could in hopes of impressing the imposing man he considered an older brother and mentor.  
  
The doctor at that demonstration had said that assisted breathing was only successful some of the time and that if the patient did not start breathing on their own after ten breaths they were likely already in the hands of the good Lord.  
  
One breath, two and Doctor White paused to readjust his grip on Connor. Three, four, and five passed quickly. Just as Haytham began to despair the doctor breathed once more and Connor's chest suddenly jerked spasmodically. Doctor White hovered over Connor for a few seconds longer.  
  
Once Connor was breathing regularly again Doctor White sat back, panting with the exertion of his actions. Haytham felt as if once again something in him had shifted. Yesterday he realized that Connor was the only family he had left, but now he understood just how tenuous that relationship was. He vowed to attempt to do something about that. What he might do, he had no idea. The boy was still infuriating and Haytham was sure that as soon as he was better they would once more be at one another's throats. A very tiny smile curled his lips at the thought.  
  
They stayed in the room together listening to Connor for the rest of the afternoon. Haytham alternated between sitting in the straight backed chair next to the desk and leaning against the wall between the windows. Myriam sat on the end of Connor's bed, only a few inches from his feet. She gazed at his face, lost in thoughts Haytham could not interpret from her expression. The doctor seemed to never stop moving. He straightened the blankets, held his hand over Connor's mouth to ensure that he still breathed, and folded and refolded the bandages piled next to the bed.

* * *

  
  
The shakes had not quite dissipated form Lyle's limbs when the sun began to set. Despite practicing medicine for his entire adult life he had never actually performed assisted-breathing before. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once.  
  
He rested his hand on Connor's forehead. The fever was less than it had been that afternoon. He would likely sleep calmly through the night. Tomorrow they would need to try and feed him some broth and perhaps burn some frankincense to try and avoid another spike in temperature. But, for now the boy was stable. He glanced over to where Haytham sat. The other man stared at Connor with a strange expression on his face. He seemed to want to speak.  
  
Lyle tapped Myriam on the shoulder.  
  
"Connor is out of danger for the night," he said softly, "We do not all need to be here to watch him." Ah, just as he had thought. Haytham looked suddenly reluctant to move. He did not want to leave Connor. The thought pleased Lyle. He might not know the whole story there, but he was glad to see that one of the two men was at least worried about the other. "Haytham, would you mind staying with him tonight? I confess I did not sleep much last night."  
  
The look Haytham shot him was nothing short of suspicious, but he nodded and said, "Of course Doctor. Do I need to do anything?"  
  
"No, if he feels warm use a cool cloth like Myriam has been doing. I will be back at sunrise tomorrow. Come Myriam, I'm sure Norris is missing you."  
  
They left him sitting beside Connor's bed. Doctor White felt the boy's forehead one last time and pronounced him clear of high fever for the moment. Myriam kissed his cheek and whispered something Haytham could not hear in Connor's ear. Then they left. The only indication that either knew anything might be amiss was the look Myriam shot over her shoulder as she left; a vicious glare that warned him against any action that might bring harm on Connor. He nodded his acknowledgement of her threat.  
  
He sat next to the sleeping man for a few minutes after they left. His training told him to never be too eager. Templars valued the Assassin tenet of discretion perhaps more than the assassins themselves did. Haste was a surefire way to be caught in the act of doing something one should not be doing. He passed the time studying Connor.  
  
Looking down at his and Ziio's son, Haytham allowed himself to smile. They had done okay, the boy was not classically handsome, but then, neither was Haytham. The light dusting of freckles across high cheekbones even this late in winter made Haytham want to know if they darkened in the summer. He resisted the urge to brush some of the hair that had escaped its braid out of Connor's face. At first glance it was Ziio he saw in Connor, not himself, but upon further inspection he could see the stubborn set of his jaw, even in sleep and the slight sardonic quirk to the eyebrows. Haytham smiled. Yes, they had done okay in the making at least. He had failed dismally at the "raising the child" bit of being a parent...  
  
With a soul deep sigh Haytham stood from his chair. The events of the last week seemed to rest upon his body making him feel old beyond his years. He stretched as best as his still healing shoulder would allow. Still hesitant to leave and explore the rest of the house and knowing he had all night to do so Haytham began to examine the walls of Connor's room. Wall hangings, paintings, a large obviously very old blanket, the small knick-knacks of an interesting life all displayed to be seen. Haytham wondered if they were for Connor or someone else. Achilles had lived here, hadn't he? Looking at the items on the small cabinet between the windows made Haytham think of his childhood bedroom and the small items saved there. Trophies, these were trophies, not decorations. Haytham scrubbed one hand down his face.  
  
Saving trophies was such a childish thing to do. Furthermore, it seemed so out of character. In the very few interactions Haytham had had with Connor the young man did not strike him as childish, naive certainly and filled with a foolish notion about the inherent goodness in people, but never childish. It made him wonder how old Connor was when Ziio died; had he ever had the opportunity to bring her the little prizes of youth? Had she ever praised him, told him how very proud she was of that feather or this rabbit? Haytham remembered bringing a shiny pebble he once found by the sea to his father. The man had raved about the beauty of that stupid little rock. He had shown it to his first mate and to the man Haytham knew back then as Mister Birch. The rock had sat on his father's desk helping to weigh down his papers until the day he died. Had Connor ever felt that sort of parental pride?  
  
Haytham reached out and toyed with the leather fringe of the lacrosse stick. He hoped Achilles had made Connor feel as Edward had made Haytham feel all those years ago. By the obvious respect Connor still held for the old man, he likely had. For that, Haytham was thankful.  
  
He jerked his mind away from his sentimental thoughts. This was not the time to be going soft like that. Here he was, in the house of his enemy, practically alone with the entire night to explore.  
  
Three hours later he flopped back into the chair next to Connor's bed. That had been the biggest waste of his time. All he had learned was that his son was living in a museum.  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Facts: Assissted breathing (as in mouth-to-mouth) has been around since approximately the early 17th century. Midwives used it to help babies breathe when they were born with fluid obstructing the airway. Eventually they taught it to their local doctors and medial 'professionals' and the practice spread. By the time of this story most doctors with any sort of formal training (i.e. anyone above a village quack) would know the technique though most non-medical folk probably wouldn't. Here's a link to a great series of scholarly articles about the practice, they are a little technically dense but make fascinating reading none-the-less: http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/16749887


	12. Discharged with Honor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry for the delay. I was computerless for a week (family vacation) and just sort of lost the thread of where I wanted to take this story after that. Be not afraid however! I have outlined where exactly this is going and played the game again to recapture the character’s voices. This story will not be abandoned, I promise. 
> 
> I also want to thank the reviewers who continued to comment and encourage me to keep writing and as always my amazing Beta, Kris. 
> 
> (to the reviewer who commented that Haytham's eyes were blue not brown: you're correct, I'll correct that in the last chapter as soon as I   
> have time.)
> 
> Pairings: gen (past Haytham/Ziio, canon homesteader pairings)  
> Warnings: none this chapter

Chapter 12: Discharged with Honor

* * *

 

“Mother?”

“Yes dear?” Ellen was only half listening to her daughter as she pulled the various packages from the saddlebags slung across her mare’s back. Each package was inspected carefully for damage before being placed in the wicker basket by her feet.

“Right after you left I went to the Inn to take Connor the quilt I made,” had Ellen been listening she might have noticed how shaken her daughter sounded.

“That was a good idea, darling,” She smiled at Maria’s thoughtfulness, “I’m sure Connor appreciates the thought.”

“I didn’t give it to Connor. The man from the stables-”

“Haytham Kenway,” her mother supplied. She pulled at the ties on her riding frock. “He is quite the gentleman; from London if I’m not mistaken.”

Maria rolled her eyes, thankful that her mother was turned away and could not reprimand her for the unladylike action.

“Mother, he said-”

“In fact, I just finished a lovely new overcoat for him. He has far better taste than young Connor. The boy is so sweet but Lord only knows who taught him to dress….”

“ **Mother**!”

Ellen set the paper wrapped package in her hands down with a thump. “What? There is no reason to shout dear.”

“But, you’re not listening to me!” Maria protested, “Mister Kenway was visiting Connor when I tried to give him the quilt and I overheard-”

“Maria, eavesdropping is not acceptable.”

Maria gave up on trying to explain the situation and blurted out the most disturbing part of what she had heard while standing outside Connor’s room, “Mister Kenway said he would kill Connor!”

For the first time since her mother arrived back from her trip Maria felt the full weight of her gaze.

“What?”

Maria suddenly felt very small and very young, “Mister Kenway said that he could kill Connor anytime he wanted,” she shuddered, “I hid until he left.”

Her mother’s arms wrapped around her bringing much needed comfort.

“I will take care of this darling,” her mother muttered into her ear. She pressed a soft kiss into Maria’s hair, “Don’t worry anymore.”

* * *

The world immediately began to spin around Norris’ ears when Myriam told him the situation she had left behind in the mansion.

“You left them alone? Connor’ll be dead before morning! He probably already -” Norris picked up his jacket and immediately set it back down. He spun in a small circle looking for his left shoe only to realize that he was already wearing both shoes. He scrubbed both hands through his hair, pulling off his bandana as he did so. He needed to get up to the house, Haytham had likely done something terrible to Connor.

“Norris, Norris calm down.” Myriam stepped between him and the door, placing her hands on either side of the frame and meeting his gaze with her own.

“No, I will not calm down! Do you not remember what Connor told us about this man? They are enemies, they-” All of the terrible acts Connor had attributed to Haytham ran through Norris’ mind. He thought of the Boston Massacre and how guilty Connor felt for not being able to stop it and of the blood stained shirt hanging in the basement of the manor from when Haytham left Connor to rot in a cell. How could Myriam possible be so calm about all this?!

“Norris you didn’t see him in there.” Myriam gripped Norris’ hand tight in her own. Her eyes glistened and suddenly he wasn’t trying to get out the door quite so frantically anymore.  “Connor stopped breathing.”

Norris’ panicked movements ceased. He stared at Myriam. “What?”

She nodded and pulled him closer, still shaken by the events of that afternoon. “He stopped breathing and Lyle was trying to help him but it wasn’t working.”

Norris’ hold on her hand was almost bruising. She pulled him out the door and down onto the single step leading to their porch. They sat with the entire sides of their bodies touching. Myriam drew comfort from the warmth.

“He’s not-” Norris choked out.

“No,” Myriam assured him. She lay a gentle kiss on his cheek, “Connor is okay now. But while he was in trouble Haytham was so scared. I’ve never seen him show so much emotion. Even when I caught him trying to go into the house his expression didn’t change. But when we thought Connor might…. well you know, he looked afraid. He stood next to the bed and I swear he was shaking.”

Norris stood and pulled his hand from Myriam’s; it was all too much, he needed to see Connor and confirm that his friend was actually okay. People didn’t just stop breathing every day and live to see the next.

Norris would never remember the rush through the woods to the house on the hill. His mind was far too caught up in what might have happened while he worked in the mines.

* * *

Norris stood outside Connor’s bedroom and took a deep breath. He steeled himself for what he might see. He prepared himself to see his best friend in pieces, to see Haytham standing over a breathless body, to see blood on a blade. He jerked himself from the morbid thoughts and shoved the door open. It banged against the wall.

“Quiet!”A voice from within snapped out in a hushed voice. Cautiously, Norris peered into the room.

To his great relief the scene before him was not as he imagined. Haytham sat in a hard back chair against the wall between the windows. His arms were crossed across his chest. He cast a tired glare in Norris’ direction.

Norris stepped across the threshold. He tore his eyes away from Haytham. He drew a deep breath and stared at Connor. The younger man looked terrible, far worse than he had only a day before at the Inn.

“I planned to tell you to stay far away from Connor,” Norris gritted out, “I don’t trust you to be left alone with him. But, my wife says you care for him and I trust her. So, I’ll simply say this; if you hurt that boy you will find yourself walled into one of the more unstable portions of my mine without food or water.”

Haytham thought that was probably the most creative threat he had yet received (at least this week). He almost responded in kind, but something about Norris’ face told him the man was honestly worried for his friend and was trying very hard to be okay with his decision to trust Haytham. In deference to this difficulty Haytham nodded, “I have no intention of hurting Connor.” For the first time those words felt true to Haytham. Not only was he not going to hurt the boy, but he had no desire to see anyone else do so. It was a strange, but not entirely unpleasant, feeling.

* * *

Over the next two days Haytham’s life began to fall into a pattern. He slept in the bed in the room across from Connor’s. It felt wrong to sleep in a dead man’s bed (for he knew the room to be Achilles’) but it was far more comfortable than the stables. Sleeping in the house had the added bonus of ensuring that none of the residents of the Homestead tried to stay through the night. Haytham slept better than he had in a week knowing he could hear anyone coming before they even put their foot on the bottom step.

The first night he woke at every sound, padding silently into the hall with his hidden blade and bracer ready for use. There was never anyone in the house and Connor rested through the night without incident. On the first morning after the day Connor stopped breathing Haytham waited until Doctor White showed up before slipping from the house on the hill. He ensured that someone had fed Horse and forced his sore body through his normal routine of exercises.

For the first time since he woke up in the stables, he was able to extend his left arm to its full extent without agonizing pain. The stretch pulled at muscles stiff from underuse. He relished the sensation.

When Haytham was in peak health he could complete the routine in very little time. He had been doing the same exercises from the time he could walk, first under his father’s patient tutelage and later under Birch’s demanding gaze. He no longer had to think about what his body was doing and that freed his mind to consider the thornier problems that faced him in his adult life.

While he had no regrets about his recent actions they did make his life more complicated than it had ever been previously. He still believed in the teachings of the Templar order, nothing would ever change that. However, he needed to decide how to go forward. He had given his entire adult life to the advancement of the Order. A grim smile touched his features as he slid into another position, moving his feet smoothly across the patch of dirt on which he stood. He had given his time to the Order and, had Connor been able to follow through at the fort, he would have given his very breath. It was strangely freeing to live when he should have died. The thought occurred to him that he might consider this an opportunity to retire. He had no desire to try and rebuild the Colonial Rite. Charles was gone and so was any connection Haytham felt to those who still lived in the Order.

They could rebuild on their own, he decided. He would not oppose them, but neither would he support them openly. It was time to live his own life, free from the responsibilities that came with being a part of the Order.

Haytham finished his exercises with a genuine smile on his face as the sun rose over the trees.

* * *

Unlike the last time he awoke, Connor emerged from unconsciousness quickly. He immediately recognized Doctor White standing above him and knew from the feel of the bed that he was in his own room. The vinegar-like smell of burning frankincense permeated the air and he knew he must have had a high fever. His people did not burn the hardened sap to reduce fever, but many of the colonists he had met swore by the practice. 

Doctor White noticed he was awake.

“Connor,” he smiled down at the assassin, “I hope you are truly with us this time.”

Connor returned the smile with effort. “I-” he paused to cough before continuing, “I believe I am, Doctor.”

* * *

The docks were a great place to sit and watch the world go by, Jamie decided. He sat with one leg folded underneath him, a small piece of wood in one hand, and a knife in the other. He carved without paying attention to what exactly he was carving. It didn’t really matter what it was, his dog would just chew it to bits in a few days anyway. He simply wanted something to do with his hands. A week had passed since the assassins had heard from Connor and they were all starting to get restless. Jamie thought Dobby would likely kill someone she wasn’t supposed to if they went without news for another few days.

He set the block of wood to the side. The ship moored directly in front of him had lowered the gang plank and men were starting to descend. He enjoyed guessing at their stories. The first one, the man who rushed ahead of all others, his scarf coming untied and his jacket not on quite right was finally joining the family he sent over months before. The man who walked more sedately behind him had been sent here by his bank to open a colonial branch. They were likely hoping to capitalize on the ongoing war to make some coin.

He knew of course that the little stories he made up for each passenger were likely incorrect, but it was a way to pass the time none-the-less. The banker, the salesman, the lonely lover; each had a distinct _look_ in his mind.

One more man descended the plank. Jamie stood and stared. Oh, this was not good news.

Reginald Birch had arrived in Boston.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Facts: Man, crossing the ocean sucked back in the day. Haytham’s journey was surprisingly easy and the ship he was on was incredibly clean. People routinely died and were disposed of in the ocean (the only thing worse than the normal ship-borne diseases were the diseases you would catch if you left bodies lying around). http://)eyewitnesstohistory (dot) com/passage (dot)htm is a firsthand account from a German traveler in 1850. I think it’s a really great example of exactly how terrible the journey was, especially for the poorer passengers who had to wait to get off the ship even after it had docked to be ‘bought’ as indentured servants by the people on land.
> 
> Something to note: the typical trip across the sea was about 3 months. It could be longer if you were becalmed (no wind) or damaged in a storm. In story time only a week has passed, so Birch had no way of knowing all the events that have happened in the last week. Poor guy is in for a terrible surprise.


	13. A Distinct Odor of Fish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: None
> 
> Pairing: predominantly gen (past Ziio/Haytham), canon homesteader pairings (Myriam/Norris, Prudence/Warren)
> 
> A/N: Writer's block and both my beta and I starting grad school are the only excuses I have. I sincerely apologize and assure you all; this story is NOT abandoned nor will it ever be. 
> 
> (As always, thanks to my amazing beta, Kris, without her this would be rife with typos and the like)

Chapter 13: A Distinct Odor of Fish

Reginald grimaced at the small motes of dust that swirled up with each step he took down the narrow street. What little quality was left in his boots after the miserable voyage would soon be ruined in these conditions, he thought sourly. London could never claim to be the cleanest city, nor was it even in the running, but at least most of the streets were paved. He could not believe that Haytham had lowered himself to living in these conditions. Well, he supposed they did what they must for the good of the Order.

With that thought in mind he pulled a well-worn letter from his pocket. Haytham had written not too long ago that he had moved into a new residence. Reginald dreaded the thought of where he had been living before if this was considered acceptable.

When he reached the address on the paper a few of his fears were alleviated; Haytham was not living in complete squalor. The building was well maintained with a red brick façade and peaked roof. The white-washed eves and door seemed clean, if in need of a new coat. It was two stories tall and squashed between two other buildings in a manner that reminded Birch of the garden home where he had first met Haytham.

The door gave way easily under his hand and Reginald entered the home. He could immediately tell that there was no one around. Everything about an empty building felt different than one with even a single person in it. The entry was a simple hallway with stairs on one side and a large double door standing open on the other, through the door appeared to be the drawing room. He would start his search there.

Birch had only just stepped across the threshold of the drawing room when he heard the back door swing open. Glancing around he found a chair without too much dust, a feature few items in the house could boast given what he had seen so far. Haytham needed to hire a maid. Of course a slave would be better but the younger man had disapproved of slavery for as long as Birch could recall. He supposed some ideas would always remain from his childhood lessons with Edward. Shaking his head ever so slightly to clear it of memories and history, Reginald crossed the room and settled into the chair. Presentation was a large portion of power. It would be best if he had found Haytham’s office and could be sitting at the desk, perhaps reading a paper or even simply enjoying a glass of wine. But, adaptability was important and relaxing in the drawing room could be effective as well. He crossed his legs loosely, steepled his fingers, and waited. Rapid steps approached the room. Birch allowed a very small smile to form, for all his preparations and manipulations of power he really was quite fond of Haytham.

He was momentarily shocked when a man of perhaps twenty years hurried into the room. In his arms were various items that Reginald could tell with a glance were valuable. He froze wide eyed and pale upon seeing that he was not alone.

Reginald smirked, a little action was exactly what he needed to brush the cobwebs of his journey away.

“I understand things are done a little differently in the colonies, but surely theft is still frowned upon.”

Suddenly the man’s face shifted into a sneer, “It’s ‘ardly stealing if ‘e’s dead, innit?” He gripped the items in his hands tighter.

Reginald sat back down with a thump.

***

Something had changed since the last time he ventured forth from the house on the hill. He didn’t notice the change at first, so happy was he to be able to wander without worrying about Connor dying while he was gone. Doctor White said that while Connor was not yet out of the woods the breaking of his fever had marked the turning of a major corner in his recovery. But slowly, as he and Norris made their way down the path, the feeling of not-quite-right crept up on him.

Haytham had always trusted his senses to guide him in any situation. They seldom led him astray, his emotions were not so reliable but his “gut”, that undeniable ability to gage a situation and react, was one of his biggest strengths. Right now it was telling him that something was very wrong. On the surface of the village everything appeared to be normal, or at least as close to normal as he would know only having resided there for a week. He and Norris were walking down the long road that made up the main thoroughfare of the Homestead. After their talk in Connor’s room something between the two men had eased and Haytham could even allow the thought that Norris was a good man and one he might one day come to truly enjoy spending time in his company. Perhaps.

It was not the change in the sort of tension that crackled in the space between them that had set Haytham’s teeth on edge. Something was different about the village itself.

Ellen stood on the porch of her house. She never looked in his direction that he could see, but he had the distinct feeling that her gaze locked on him the second he looked away. In fact, the itching between his shoulder blades of eyes on him had not gone away since he and Norris began their walk.

The two men approached a group of children who were playing in the street. From the look of them Haytham thought they might be the lumberjacks’ children. On the edge of his vision Haytham could see Ellen stiffen, her arms crossed over her chest.

Haytham watched the seamstress as she dragged the protesting children away from him, casting terrible glares over her shoulder the entire time. He clasped his hands behind his back and leaned closer to Norris.

“Is there something particularly offensive about my odor?” he muttered. It was a bit of a joke, but he really did want to know why everyone on the Homestead save Myriam and Norris suddenly seemed so wary of him. As far as he knew the only two who suspected anything about his previous occupation were them and they seemed to have come to terms with that revelation.

Norris chuckled low in his throat, “Not to me,” he smiled, “But then Myriam always complains that I can’t smell anything.”

Haytham hummed a little but did not otherwise respond, choosing instead to watch Ellen glance over her shoulder for the fifth time since beginning her retreat. Her glares had faded to honest, open fear by the third look.

Norris seemed to sense that the mood was no longer the comfortable chat it had been and murmured, “I will talk to Dave, perhaps he knows something.”

“I appreciate it,” Haytham allowed his hands to fall loosely to his sides. He turned towards the narrow path that diverged from the main road through the village. “I think I will take a short walk.” He cast a very light smile in Norris’ direction, “I promise not to run away or kill anyone.”

Norris waved him off with a loose grin.

***

Connor had a strange relationship with his bedroom. He loved the privacy and the ability to display the mementos of his adventures. It was a place to retreat to when the noise of the woods was too oppressive and the wooden walls of the cities to bleak, a place to be weak when everyone in his life needed him to be strong. At the same time he missed the communal nature of his early life; meals where others’ shoulders brushed his own on, fire that wasn’t painful and hungry crackled before him. He missed the ability to be weak, to fall and be caught by his family. While Achilles still lived he had at least been able to hear the old man snoring through the open doors between them. Now, there was nothing. He missed the rhythmic reassurance that he was not alone in the world. Most of the time he could forget this conflict between his current life and his past but when he spent too long in the bedroom it came to the forefront of his mind. At those times he would usually go tree running until he was too tired to even lift his feet much less think.

So, when he awoke to a room devoid of life other than himself, Connor decided he needed to escape for a bit. The silence of the closed windows and vacant house were just too much. He had no desire to think on those he had lost and he knew they would all too rapidly begin to fill the corners of the room, clamoring for his attention, blaming him for his inability to save them.

Of course deciding to get out of bed and doing so were two entirely different beasts. The first order of business was to sit up. Connor braced his aching midsection with one arm. The fingers of his other hand pressed deeply into the mattress. The tiny pricks of hay against his fingers helped ground him against the pain and he succeeded in sitting up. He breathed as deeply as he could, focusing on the sounds of birds chattering outside his window to distract himself as he worked through the pulsing flares of pain. Slowly, it worked. Having achieved a vertical position for the first time in longer than he wanted to think about Connor was disgusted to find that his desire to leave his bedroom was very nearly equaled by his desire to lay right back down. Eager to suppress that urge, Connor planted his hands on the edge of the bedframe and pushed himself to his feet in a single fluid motion.

Unable to stop himself from swaying, Connor leaned into it and allowed the momentum to propel him down the stairs. As he passed the candelabra on the wall he had to avert his eyes. For a reason he did not want to think about the blank wall made him feel unreasonably guilty.

The front door swung open without a sound. It felt like years since he stepped outside. Connor relished the feeling of the gentle breeze against his fever-warmed brow. He considered visiting Achilles’ grave but the slight rise in the ground between he and it quickly forced him to reevaluate that plan. There was a fairly level path that looped from the front of the house through a small portion of the surrounding forest and back. He could manage that much, or at least he hoped he could.

Connor did not notice the change in sensation until he turned to start back towards the house. The savage ache that was his constant companion since the day he killed Lee shifted into something sharper. The muscle that ran up his flank tightened agonizingly. He jerked to the side, shocked by the sudden increase in pain. Unable to do more than stagger to the closest tree, Connor fought to remain silent. He needed help.

***

“This man is here to hurt and kill one we love!” Ellen resisted her urge to slam her fist into the table top. It would not do to appear so unladylike before her friends and neighbors. “Who is to say who else will get hurt?”

The homesteaders, save Dave and Norris, were gathered at the Mile’s End. Flagons of Oliver’s homemade brew sat in front of each of them and worried looks were exchanged across the long table. The news Ellen brought struck a chord of fear in each person there. The Homestead was a haven to them all, a new start and a chance for a better life than that which they had led before. Connor had brought each of them to this place; he helped them to build their homes and businesses, he played with their children, and ran errands when they could not. To threaten Connor was to threaten all that which they held dear. A flurry of glares crossed the room and each occupant realized they had come to a consensus without needing to debate.

Haytham Kenway would not be allowed to hurt Connor.

***

“Connor?” A deep voice broke through his fugue. Connor managed to look up from the knot in the bark of the tree he leaned against. “Connor, are you okay?”

“Dave?” He slurred. The pain was beginning to recede somewhat and he could actually focus enough to see the large man approaching from the direction of the village. Gentle hands moved around his body and lifted Connor enough to shift his weight from the tree to the blacksmith.

“What happened?” Dave asked, “Are redcoats on the Homestead?”

Connor tried to shake his head; everything was swimming and he only knew he had succeeded when Dave spoke again.

“Who then?” the distinctly murderous timber in the gentle man’s voice told Connor he needed to snap out of it and respond verbally.

“No-” he paused to cough, wincing when the jerking threatened to reignite the all-consuming pain. He continued speaking after a few seconds, “No one did this to me.” There, it was out, in a voice far weaker than Connor would prefer but at least Dave would not start an unnecessary search for a nonexistent culprit. Dave’s grip on him loosened ever so slightly, funny, Connor had not even noticed how tense the other man had been before.

“What happened then?” Dave sounded calmer too, “Last I saw you, you looked world’s better than right now.”

Connor’s mouth twisted into a self-deprecating smile. “I became bored and thought a walk might cure me of it. I was obviously not quite ready for that.” He decided not to mention the terrifying spasm or the lingering shakiness he still felt. Surely it would only be a one-time occurrence and there was no need to worry his friend over what would amount to nothing in the end.

Dave chuckled, “Oh, lad. I know it’s right tedious being stuck in your room all day, but if Doc White says to do it….”

“I know,” Connor sighed, “It was reckless and foolish to attempt such a venture when I am still so weak.” If his voice sounded bitter at the end of his speech neither man mentioned it.

The house came into view through the thinning trees and with it Haytham. His father sat upon the steps leading up to the porch fiddling with the buttons of his cuffs. It was a strangely human gesture from a man Connor was not entirely sure knew what the word meant. He did not notice their presence.

“Stop,” Connor whispered.

“Why? We’re almost there, you need to lie down.” Despite the question, Dave did slow to a stop. He raised his head and followed Connor’s gaze. A soft snort escaped his nose when he saw Haytham, “He looks tired.”

Connor had not noticed before, caught up as he was in trying to find Templar motivations in everything the older man did. Now that it had been pointed out he agreed; Haytham _did_ look tired. The man was in his early fifties but normally the only indications of his age were the silver strands at his temples and the slight crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. But now, now he seemed old; gray faced with exhaustion, his shoulders bowed and dark bruises under his eyes. Connor realized what a toll the last week had taken on his father. Instead of the triumph he had expected, an unfamiliar sadness filled him at the realization.

After a few moments Dave nudged him and they continued towards the house. Haytham’s exhaustion vanished as soon as the pair exited the tree line. He stood up straight and crossed his arms in front of his chest.  Connor could feel the heat of his glare even as far away as they still were. Haytham spoke as soon as they crested the top of the first set of steps.

“What on God’s good earth were you thinking?!” He snarled, “Thought you could just go gallivanting about with a hole in your gut, did you?”

Haytham was pleased to see the slight wince cross Connor’s face at the accusation. He was less pleased when the wince shifted to a scowl. Oh, he could just _see_ the stubbornness setting in.

“This is my land,” Connor snapped back breathlessly, “What you desire or believe holds no sway over it or me.” Despite the venom of his words, his face remained even and blank.

“I may not, nor would I want to,” Haytham returned, “But, I assume you follow the recommendations of you physician?” Haytham noticed that Dave was glaring at him. He cocked an eye brow as he finished speaking.

“The lad is in pain and he does not need you making it worse,” the blacksmith growled.

“Dave, it is alright.” Connor pulled away from the other man. Once he was standing on his own he continued, “I am fine.”

Haytham watched as the two men stared at one another for a long few seconds. Finally, Dave spoke without breaking away from Connor’s stare. “If you’re sure?”

Connor nodded.

“Fine,” Dave inclined his head sharply at Haytham and turned on his heel, “Good day. Connor I will visit tomorrow.” He strode away without a backwards glance.

As soon as he was out of sight, Haytham’s manner shifted to something closer to the tired old man he had been when Connor first approached. He sat down on the step again with a boneless motion. Connor envied the ease of movement. He was already so very tired of feeling constantly weak.

“Sit down before you fall down and Dave kills me,” he snapped. His words lacked any of the heat Connor had come to expect from his father. It was that surprise that made him actually comply with the order instead of arguing as was his natural inclination.

He suppressed the groan as much as he could as he lowered himself onto the top step. If the sideways look Haytham shot him was anything to go by, he did not succeed.

“What happened?” Connor very carefully did not look at Haytham. It was so much easier to forget who exactly he was talking to when he didn’t look.

“I went for a walk.” There, carefully neutral, non-incriminating and non-revealing of his terrible weakness.

Haytham snorted, “Right. You’ve a hole in your gut the size of the Chesapeake. It only makes sense to go for a walk the first time you are conscious for longer than three breaths.”

Connor really wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say after that so he stayed silent. Haytham sighed, a deep breathy sound that made Connor feel guilty in the same way the candelabra did.

“You are not one to give in to a mere wound,” Haytham finally broke the silence. He did not elaborate further.

It was Connor’s turn to sigh. It hurt, but almost in a good way, like stretching after sitting still for too long.

“I went for a walk,” he repeated himself, “It was fine; I was fine.”

“Obviously not.” Instead of incensing him, Connor had the strong desire to chuckle at Haytham’s dry observation.

“I was,” Connor reiterated, “But, something happened.” He gestured to his side, helpless to explain what had elicited the spasm. Haytham stayed silent so Connor continued, “I can handle pain, control it and ignore it if it is necessary. This, this was different.”

Haytham thought of how, not four days previously Connor had ripped a shaft of wood from his own stomach and hunted down Charles Lee while bleeding out. He found he could readily believe that mere pain would not stop his son.

“Tell me about it,” he ordered.

So Connor did. He explained how it had begun with a tingling along his side and before he could do anything, advanced to rippling mind-numbing agony. Haytham listened and did not speak until Connor had finished. He turned to face the younger man for the first time since they sat down.

“Don’t worry,” he clapped a hand on Connor’s shoulder, “We shall figure this out.”

 

 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Facts: I have all kinds of historical facts for today but I’ll just put the final two medical ones in this chapter and the third (about a slave “rebellion”) in the next chapter lest this section get really long.
> 
> Medical Fact 1: As one reviewer pointed out I didn’t even touch on what is (at least to me) one of the worst medical offences of the late 1700s; the smallpox vaccine was ‘invented’ (I use the term loosely) around this time and first tested on a child.The “vaccine” consisted of running a thread through the open pustule of an infected patient and then running that same thread under the skin of a healthy person. From what a professor told me last semester you had about a ninety percent chance of catching the disease from this process rather than simply developing the immunity. Interestingly, people who caught smallpox in this manner were far more likely to survive than those who caught it naturally and once you have had it you cannot catch it again. In fact, General Washington ordered ALL his troops to be vaccinated in this way (hygiene around the American camps was horrific and he was trying to prevent as much disease as possible). Surprisingly that gamble actually sort of paid off for him…
> 
> Medical Fact(?) 2: Connor’s spasm (I don’t really know what the medical diagnosis would be) is a possibility for the sort of wound he sustained. There was this old rancher near where my family ranch is who had been gored by a bull when he was younger (his scar was insane). He still got the occasional muscle spasm that completely laid him out. Since he was growing up during the Great Depression (in extremely rural Texas, no less) and really didn’t have access to medical care I figured that might be a possibility for Connor as well. I know this isn’t really a fact but wanted to show that there is some precedent for what I’m writing. J
> 
> (I should note: Haytham’s home is quite nice, I’ve just decided that Reginald is a pissy little so-and-so)


	14. Let's Get Down to Business

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So, I'm not sure if Connor's haircut/face paint was because he was 'going to war' or if it was in mourning after Achilles' death. I did some light research but nothing stood out in either direction (there was this one article that looked fascinating but it was behind a paywall). Anyway, I'm going with the mourning aspect, if anyone knows to the contrary please tell me. I have no desire to step on any cultural toes or portray anyone inaccurately.
> 
> A/N 2: I promised this would not be abandoned, I was not lying. :) Like I said to a few people who pm'd me; end of the semester absolutely killed both me and my beta. Follow that up with family obligations and the holidays... well, that's why this update has taken so long. The next should be faster.
> 
> Pairings: canon Homesteader pairings, quite a lot of past Haytham/Ziio in this chapter
> 
> Warnings: none this chapter

Chapter 14: Let's Get Down to Business

Clipper leapt from the edge of the roof, reaching out ahead with his dominant hand as the other held his rifle out away from his body. His first few attempts at roof running under Connor's watchful gaze, had nearly ended in disaster when the stock of the long gun tangled in his feet and fouled his landing. He had tried to leap with it strapped to his back but the lack of maneuverability that created almost caused his death when he couldn't twist enough to grab the eave. The moment of panic when he realized he would not be able to reach far enough still fuelled his leaps between buildings. Connor would not always be there to grab him and save him from certain death, he needed to be better than he thought he could be. His hand gripped the roof edge and he pulled himself up. Without a pause he kept running, ducking around a chimney to stay out of the searching gaze of a soldier stationed one roof over.

Normally a rooftop dash like this was reserved for official Assassin business. You didn't want to draw attention to yourself unless it was absolutely necessary, and being on the roofs was a surefire way to piss off both the minutemen and regulars. Dobby, the de facto leader of the Assassins when Connor was not around, had sent him across the city to check the pigeon coop on the south side for a message from their missing leader.

The fact that the coop had been empty of everything save a few loose feathers fluttering about in the breeze created as he yanked the door open terrified him. That was the last coop the needed checking. That meant a full week had passed without word from Connor. Even if the normal course of events that was strange. Their leader made it a point to check in with each Assassin personally at least once a week. In times such as these, when all of their lives were at risk, he would physically come look in on them and letters arrived once every few days.

Clipper reached the edge of the buildings with gaps he could leap between. A quick scrabble down the side of a house and he was on the ground, sprinting for all he was worth. He skidded into the vestibule, hastily pulling off his hat and jacket. They landed with a thump on the floor next to the hook he was aiming at.

"Nothing!" He announced as he entered the room the others were already gathered in. He was beginning to calm down as the frantic quality of his errand waned. The panic left in its wake a sick worry for his friend. Why had Connor not contacted them yet?

"We've given the lad a week, what's a few more days?" Duncan drawled as Clipper found a spot to sit in, his casual tone belied the tense set of his jaw and the way his hand refused to leave the hilt of the long knife he wore at his waist. The gathered assassins murmured, some in agreement, some in protest.

"He would not leave us in the dark like this if everything were okay," Jamie worried.

As the days since their last meeting had passed with no word from their leader the colonial assassins had become more and more restless. Over the course of the week Dobby's summons had brought each of them to New York. Since her home was located in a fairly isolated area she had invited the entire group to stay there while waiting for word. When one of her nosier neighbors started asking questions she simply said they were friends of her late husband's, come to pay their respects.

Clipper was amazed by the luxury of Dobby's home. Her husband must have been quite successful before he went to war. Of course, it was likely considered a modest home by most, but Clipper's young life had been spent in the wilds. The small room he currently rented above a tannery seemed large and empty compared to the tents and lean-tos of his youth.

Against his will he currently sat in a comfortable armchair, staring into the fire. The chair was plush and when he sat down it felt like it was surrounding him on all sides, trapping him. It was a highly disconcerting experience, but he had no desire to offend his host and perch someplace higher like the icebox in the corner.

"Aye, but if we interfere and bugger it up for 'em?" Jacob shot back at Jamie across the table.

"We cannot ignore that Connor needs us!" Stephane protested.

"And we are not doing so,"

"Shut it lads," Dobby had appeared in the doorway, "Connor may be fine and dandy, but we canne' be sure until we see for ourselves."

Clipper nodded happily at the direction she seemed to be heading.

"We will spread out to look for him," she announced. Duncan rolled his eyes but no one protested. Dobby was the unopposed leader when Connor was not around, no one would dare argue with her. "Duncan, head to Boston and check the usual haunts to the north, Stephane the south. Jamie take southern New York, I'll search the north. Jacob, you check the forts on the frontier and Clipper you head out to that manor he keeps."

They each nodded their assent.

"I want daily pigeons," Dobby instructed, "It's dangerous out there, especially since we don't know if Connor has been captured. Keep a weather eye and don't hesitate to ask for help."

Clipper felt a little more of the tension leak from his shoulders now that they were actually _doing_ something to help.

* * *

When Connor awoke on the fourth day after his walk Haytham was already in his room. He stood by the window nearest the door, fiddling with the fringe on one of Connor's wall hangings. While Connor had become used to his father being present, especially in the evenings, he was not used to waking up with the man around. Especially as the sun had only barely begun to lighten the sky.

Painfully, he forced himself into a sitting position. A small thrill of pride passed through him when he managed to do so without a groan. He could feel Haytham's eyes on him and forcibly suppressed the grimace that wanted to twist his lips.

"Good morning," he gritted out in the most even voice he could manage.

Haytham grimaced, "I will concede that it is morning." He glanced out the window, the look on his face souring further, "Though it may hardly be called a good one."

Connor turned his attention to the world outside the window. It was a dreary day by even the most generous estimate. Torn into unusually jagged gray stripes by the tree tops, fog hung low over the valley obscuring any view Connor might have had of the home he and the Homesteaders had worked so hard to build.

With a small shrug Connor began to arduous process of extracting himself from the confines of his bed. The colonials worried so much about the weather. His people did not allow a little rain or snow stop them from completing whatever tasks they needed to complete on a given day. Fog was hardly a reason to dismiss a whole day as 'bad'.

Haytham watched as he pulled himself form the bed with an unreadable expression on his face. Finally, when the silence was bordering on oppressive he spoke.

"Doctor White and I have spoken and we are in agreement." If it were not Haytham Kenway speaking Connor would think he sounded nervous. But that was hardly possible… "He does not know why you are having these," he paused momentarily, seeming to search for the word, "episodes. Otherwise, your wounds are healing satisfactorily. We both believe it is time for you to begin rebuilding your strength."

Connor nodded. He felt as wobbly as a newborn foal. The weakness did not sit well with him, not when a war still raged throughout the colonies and Redcoats had so recently been spotted so near his lands. It ran against his instincts to accept help from Haytham, but there was no one else to turn too now that Achilles was gone (the thought sent a sharp stab of pain through his chest that had nothing to do with his sounds).

"Excellent," Haytham clapped his hands together, "I will meet you outside in thirty minutes."

Haytham did not offer to stay and help Connor prepare for the day, a fact for which Connor was grateful. The coming exercise would reveal just how weak he was without his father seeing how much simple grooming tasks took out of him.

He managed to make it downstairs on a little less than three quarters of an hour. Normally such a time would have been dismally slow, now he was just happy to be up and moving around.

The gelding he had liberated from a drunken colonial soldier who was far too heavy handed with the crop grazed just outside the door of the house. Every few bites it looked up and over at Haytham, as if making sure the man was still there.

"Awe:ri." Connor greeted the horse happily. The gelding snorted and butted him gently on the shoulder.

"Is that you how you say his name?" Haytham asked from where he sat on a boulder to the left of the door. Connor nodded assent.

"It is written on the stable." Connor understood that his language was difficult for most to pronounce but surely a simple word like 'awe:ri' was not too trying?

Seemingly reading his thoughts, Haytham rolled his eyes, "Connor, I could never pronounce your mother's name and she repeated it for me more times than I care to count. Why on earth would I be able to pronounce a horse's name that I had never heard aloud?"

Connor chuckled. His mother had not liked to speak of his father (a fact that drove him mad when he was younger) but one of the few stories she had told him was of the trouble he had with her name and how she gained the nickname Ziio.

"What have you been calling him if not his name?" he asked. Awe:ri was notoriously ornery; Connor was honestly shocked he had taken to Haytham so readily especially if he had not even been using the correct name.

Haytham shifted uncomfortably and muttered something Connor could not hear.

"What?"

He spoke up with a gusty sigh, "Horse, I've been calling him Horse."

Connor really could not help it, he laughed. Deep, gut laughs that hurt terribly but felt so good he didn't mind the pain. Haytham scowled, but said nothing. It was strangely nice to see his son so carefree. It was not something he had witnessed previously.

After a few moments of laughter Connor settled down and smiled at Haytham. The expression nearly took the Templar's breath away. He had never before seen Connor look like the young man he was and not a bitter old soldier. It was refreshing. He found that the candle's flame of affection deep in his heart grew a little as he looked upon his son's unfettered smile. He had to fight to keep his scowl in place.

"Come, we should get started before the heat of the day sets in. Doctor White said overheating might be a trigger for you."

* * *

"Hello Corrine, you look lovely today," Norris twisted his hat between his hands nervously. Corrine was his friend he did not want to be using her to get information like this. But, Haytham had asked him to, and while the man was not a friend, he was important to Connor. Norris would do anything to keep Connor happy while it lasted, the poor lad was so rarely content.

Corrine looked up from the bar she was wiping down. She smiled at him.

"Hello there, Norris! No work to be done in the mines today, I take it?"

Norris shook his head, "Myriam said if I came home tonight covered in soot she'd have my head."

Corrine laughed. She had a deep laugh for a woman, a fact that Norris had always found charming rather than off-putting. "Does the lass have a big night planned for you then?"

Norris blushed at her implication. "It is the anniversary of when she agreed to court me," he conceded, "She told me to be home early." A sudden thought occurred to him, "I hope she is not planning on cooking." Myriam was a fabulous cook when she was seated by a campfire and using ingredients gathered from the woods. Her concoctions on the stove with bought ingredients tended to be less than edible. Norris grimaced. He shook his head, clearing away thoughts of what the night held for him and refocussing on the task at hand.

"Corrine, may I ask you a question?"

She smiled at him, "Of course, darling."

"In confidence?"

The corners of her lips turned downward. "You can ask me anything, Norris."

That wasn't quite the assurance that she would not share his question that he wanted from her but it would have to do. He really did have to get back to Myriam.

"Why are people following Haytham Kenway around?"

Corrine's face hardened at his words. "That man is dangerous," she almost spat. Norris reeled back. Of course he had suspected that the settlers of the Homestead knew more than they should about Haytham and Connor's past interactions. But, he never thought to see such vitriol on the face of such a sweet woman.

"What?"

"Ellen's little girl, sweet lass that she is, was taking Connor a blanket when he was so laid up," Corrine explained. She had begun scrubbing viciously at a spot on the counter Norris suspected was an old stain. "She heard voices and waited outside so as not to interrupt. She heard that _man_ say that he was going to kill Connor!"

That was certainly news to Norris. He considered worrying about it, but he knew that Haytham would not hurt Connor. Of that much at least he was sure, if of nothing else about the man. It occurred to him that he trusted Haytham. It was a strange feeling after hating him for so long.

He thanked Corrine for her information and left. He needed to tell Haytham that the Homesteaders would be following him for the foreseeable future and not to annoy them too badly. Then he could hurry home.

* * *

"What was my mother like when you knew her?" Connor very carefully did not look up from the blade of grass he had focused as he slowly stretched the muscles of his right leg. He sensed Haytham cease moving behind him. A long silence stretched between them broken only by the unhappy chirps and calls of the migratory birds.

"She was the toughest woman I had ever known," Haytham finally said. "We met when she had been captured by some regulars. Even in captivity she held herself like a noble woman."

Connor eased himself from the uncomfortable stretch and began the next one in his normal routine. He had cocked his head toward Haytham and closed his eyes, committing the words to memory.

"I rescued her, though she did not act like I had," Haytham breathed in sharply, "She never did as I expected her to. It was infuriating that she would not trust me no matter what I said or did. But, as we worked together I began to find that trait endearing. She was quite funny in a quiet way. I did not notice at first, but later it was all I could do not to break our cover by laughing."

Connor felt as if all the energy had drained from him. He tried to picture his mother's gentle smile as she told him a bedtime story or her sly smirk when she pulled one over on one of the elders. But, all he could see was the twist of her mouth as she told him to run and the horror in her eyes as the flames approached.

"Did you love her?" He asked dully. He opened his eyes, attempting to dispel the terrible images behind the lids. Haytham's face looked just as drawn as his felt by the conversation.

"I have always thought I did," Haytham whispered, "Certainly, I cared deeply for her. More than I ever have for another woman. But, love? I'm not quite sure I know what love feels like."

Connor was not sure what answer he had been hoping for. Of course, he wanted to believe that Haytham had loved his mother. He remembered the sad look in her eyes whenever Connor had asked about his father as a child and knew that she had loved the man who left. However, he appreciated the honesty.

"Why did you leave?" Connor had not planned to ask the question. It was so very childish, and yet…. It was the one which had bothered him his entire life. His mother had always assured him that his father was a good man (a fact which Connor was only just beginning to believe). But, it was so hard to trust what she had said when the man was not there to confirm it.

"It was not I who turned away," Haytham admitted, "Ziio learned the true nature of my work. She never believed that I was doing to right thing."

"She was right," Connor muttered. Haytham shot a glare at him and continued as if he had not spoken.

"She asked me to stop, but I would not abandon my mission," Haytham sighed deeply, "She left."

Connor wanted to berate the man, to rail against him for all the grievances of a childhood without a father. To tell him of a mother who was always tired and always sad, but still managed to have a smile for her son. Instead, he simply nodded. Haytham's voice held true remorse for his actions so many years ago, Connor could not find it within himself to fault his father for them.

The rest of their workout was completed in silence. Connor, who was under Doctor White's express orders to do no more than stretch his muscles, took his leave without a word when he felt the beginnings of a spasm. Haytham did not appear to notice him go, lost as he was in the past.

Hours later, just as the sun began to descend in the sky, Connor found Haytham in the Inn, nursing a large flagon of mead. His father looked up at his approach.

"What have you done?" Haytham set his mug down on the table with a metallic clank. Connor sat down across from him, his hands braced against the table, slowly lowering his weight to avoid a flare of pain. The last time Haytham saw the young man, not three hours previously, his hair had been pulled back as it had been ever since they first met. Now, it was entirely shaved off save for a strip down the middle of his head which was still tied back. Haytham was almost too distracted to notice the three stripes of paint on each cheek.

Connor tilted his head defiantly.

"That as not a rhetorical question," Haytham snapped. Connor's eyes narrowed.

"I am honoring Achilles," he half-growled, "My people may be gone," his voice broke a little on the last word. He cleared his throat, looking determinedly away from Haytham. "My people have left but I will not abandon our ways entirely. I should have done so weeks ago but was otherwise occupied."

His words left no room for Haytham to deliver the scathing evaluation of the hairstyle he had rapidly formulated. Instead he sighed and nodded. Tradition and the ceremonies of death were something both of his educations had been very strict about. Haytham wondered if his son's actions had anything to do with their conversation earlier.

They sat in silence for a few moments while Connor gathered the frayed threads of his composure. The quiet bustle of a thriving inn provided a sense of privacy, even between the two men seated at the table.

"Was it a bad one?" Haytham finally asked.

Connor shook his head, "Not as bad as yesterday. Worse than the day before." He had rapidly discovered that honesty was the best policy when it came to his health. Both Haytham and Doctor White seemed to possess the ability to see through his lies and it always put them in a bad mood when they caught him at it.

"Be sure to inform Doctor White," was Haytham's only response besides a worried look. Connor nodded.

* * *

"Connor?" Connor shifted in the chair but did not turn around. Clipper strode forward, desperate to see for himself that the man was truly okay. "Oh, thank god you're alive."

Connor snorted softly, "Barely."

Clipper collapsed into the sturdy chair that sat beside Connor's own.

"Dobby's gone sparse," Clipper informed Connor, "You shouldn't disappear like that on us."

Connor had the decency to look uncomfortable, "I apologize," he murmured, "It was not my intention to worry you. I simply-"

Clipper cut him off with a wave of his hand, "I was told to, in her words, beat you senseless if I found you relaxing," he chuckled, "I'm just glad to see you alive. I thought the worst when you didn't show back up."

"I was injured in the pursuit of Charles Lee," Connor's hand crept up to his side. He sounded unsure of himself to Clipper's ears, as if he wasn't quite certain that 'injured' was the correct word for what had happened. For the first time since sitting down Clipper studied the man who was his mentor and friend. He looked haggard, thin and paler than Clipper had ever before seen him. The skin around his eyes seemed pulled tight and even sitting down he was panting slightly. Clipper felt a tendril of worry snake back through him.

"But you're okay?"

Connor was silent for a long time before he finally said, "I will be."

Clipper nodded, "Good," and that was that. He felt no need to push at a topic which obviously made Connor uncomfortable. Besides, Connor had never before lied to him. He trusted that the assassin would not start now.

"Tell me of the city," Connor seemed almost desperate to talk of something else, "How goes the war?"

Clipper nodded; time for business. "Well, General Washington has surrounded the British at Yorktown. The general talk seems positive about the way everything is going."

"And with us?" Clipper smiled. It was nice to be included in an 'us'.

"We are well. Duncan was going on about some noble chap in from London, Oak or Birch, something like that, and Dobby is her usual charming self. The others are hale."

"Good," Connor, he then breathed in deeply and turned to fully face Clipper, "I must ask a favor of you."

Clipper sat up straighter, "Of course, Connor, whatever you need."

"I need you to go to Washington and deliver a message," Connor explained. There was something Clipper did not understand in his expression, a bitterness that made no sense. Connor and the General were close, weren't they?

"What am I delivering?"

Connor told him.

* * *

Reginald was sure he should feel something as he gazed down at the slate gray stone. Charles Lee had organized the marker before his own demise. It was simple, something Reginald was sure Haytham, with his strange ideas about economical living, would have appreciated.

"'Tis a nice stone," the gravelly voice belonged to a grizzled old man in grimy, ill-fitted clothes. Reginald moved ever so slightly away from the filth. "I met 'em once. He were a good man."

Reginald nodded. For all their disagreements, he had trusted Haytham with his life and missed the man fiercely. From Edward's death onward Reginald had been in charge of raising and training Haytham. It was an assignment from the former Grandmaster, Assassin trained children who could be taught to be completely loyal to their cause were so rare. It had been an honor to be chosen to befriend and kill Edward Kenway and acquire his son. He had not expected to like Edward or the extreme fondness he had felt for the ten year old Haytham.

But, he had become Grandmaster himself almost thirty years ago and with that position came a kind of displacement from others that meant his affection for Haytham had waned. Now, standing before the man's grave all he could summon was annoyance that the Colonial Rite had failed so thoroughly.

"Pity the man what killed him is still out there," the old man had not taken his silence as the queue to leave it was supposed to be. Suddenly, Reginald was glad he had not.

"Explain," he snapped.

The man shrugged, "Everybody knows. General Lee, well former General, I s'ppose. You know the bloke what was talking bad about General Washington?"

Reginald rolled his eyes, "Yes, I know of Charles Lee."

"Well, he was here at the funeral when the man what killed Mister Kenway showed up. General Lee yelled some stuff I 'im. I couldn't hear what," he gestured at his own head, "My ears isn't what they used t'be. Anyway, they left and not two days later they were saying General Lee was dead and that the man in the hood was seen leaving the tavern."

Reginald's thoughts were racing. The Assassin was still alive? He would need to change his plans, and fast.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Fact 1: Mohawk (and other members of the Iroquois Confederacy) mourning rituals are amazingly complex and I cannot hope to do them justice within a single paragraph (there are entire books written on the subject). But some very rudimentary basics are thus; member of the Tribe or not does not matter, if you were considered family you receive the mourning ceremony which is about closure and peace with the passing. Additionally, if the rituals are not carried out properly the dead will suffer and if you miss the ceremony you will receive bad luck. I've got a book on hold about this at my university library so I'll add more accurate and fleshed out facts if it comes available before the story ends. Once again, if you know more or if I am misinformed please tell me. Here is this link to the article with a lot more detail about the politics of mourning ceremonies: . /publications/record/vol_
> 
> Historical Fact 2: So, the summer of 1755 was a hot one, a real scorcher. The kind of hot that means a spike in crime, a spike in tensions, and a spike in paranoia. Fires had started breaking out throughout New York City, a normal occurrence in a city almost entirely composed of wood and in the middle of a drought, but people were starting to think arson. No one wanted to believe that a good upstanding New Yorker would set their city ablaze so suspicion naturally turned to the slaves. People were terrified of the slaves because they made up such a huge portion of the population. So, they found some suspicious looking people and held a trial. The slaves accused of the crime were executed with no real evidence against them, the authorities just wanted to try and calm the panicked populace. Then, there was another fire. Suddenly the theory was that the slaves couldn't be intelligent enough to orchestrate their fiery 'rebellion' alone. A suspected catholic was accused (Spain was an enemy of the British and was catholic so, naturally, the religion was illegal to practice in most of the American colonies). After a lengthy trial in which they barely discussed the fires and focused far more on proving he was catholic, the man was convicted and executed. The heat soon broke and the fires stopped and the people of New York felt confident they had caught the right men. It was a crazy summer and left a bad taste in a lot of New Yorkers mouths about slavery (not that it was inhumane or anything but they were scared of the slaves). So, Reginald may think that Haytham doesn't hire a slave because of this since he was in the city in 1755…. If you want to read more New York Burning (I've forgotten the author right now) is a great, historically accurate, novel about that summer.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I promised this story would not be abandoned. I meant it. We're coming to the end. If it feels like there is too much to resolve, worry not! There is a sequel to be entitled "Do Right By Him" and posted on both ff and ao3 under my penname (ZiZzy). There is one more chapter after this one and then an epilogue that acts as the prologue for the sequel. Once again, I want to thank everyone who took the time to review. Grad school is incredibly time consuming, but you reviews gave me the motivation to ignore my homework for at least a little bit each day and write. So, thanks for that, I need the breaks. Happy reading!
> 
> Pairings: None (canon Homesteader pairings, past Haytham/Ziio)
> 
> Warnings: None

  


* * *

Chapter 15: The Edge of a Knife

Connor waited until midafternoon, when Haytham typically left for a long walk, to descend into the basement. The war was over for him, he was not naïve enough to believe that he would be completely healed in time to help in the fighting again. As it was he could feel the end approaching. It was the same feeling he got when hunting, the tight knot of tension behind his eyes that told him when to release the string of his bow to achieve the most humane kill shot. By the time he was ready to truly fight again all would be said and done and it would be a new world. Connor could honestly say that he did not care who won; any fondness he had felt for the revolutionaries had burned away in his confrontation with General Washington. Both groups held no love for his people, he knew that now. They would have to make their own way in the world. For the first time he was glad they had left. They would be safer far away from the colonies.

Briefly, he thought about trying to find them. He thought of going back and sitting by the fire with the children he grew up with. They would have paired off by now, found the person they wished to spend their life with. He would have to tell Chagwalet that it was he who had killed Kanen; that he was the reason that Kanen would never be the father of her children, the reason they would never grow old together as they had planned. The thought was terrible. The separation between he and his people had never felt larger.

"Well, son, I must say this is delightfully creepy." Connor jerked violently. He gripped the small stack of paintings tighter against his chest. How had Haytham found the entrance to the basement? Connor was positive he had slid the hidden door shut behind him as he descended. It had been a difficult task, to balance on the top step while gripping the handrail with one hand and pulling the door shut with the other. He was sure that Haytham had not been in the house when he opened the door, nor had he heard its distinctive scrape since he had been down here.

Haytham ignored the poleaxed look on his son's face and strode forward. He took the stack of paintings from Connor's hands.

"I love the ambiance," he continued, "What is that you've decorated the walls with? Mold? Obviously the decorators in London are missing out." The first few paintings elicited little emotional reaction, though the red 'x' through each face was startling and harsh. Then he reached Charles.

Lee's face stared up at him. He was young in the painting, and even in the static image Haytham could see the enthusiasm for life that had drawn him to trust in the younger man all those years before. He drew in a ragged breath through clenched teeth.

"Where did you get these?"

"Achilles helped me acquire them when I was old enough to begin working to dismantle your organization." Haytham could hear how uncomfortable Connor was saying that to him. He didn't care. The buried hurt of his friend's death at the hands of his son had been uncovered by the painting. Let Connor be uncomfortable, he deserved it.

No, that was unfair. Yes, Connor had killed Charles Lee. But, the killing was hardly unprovoked. They had been fighting a war and Connor happened to win. Besides, he was still paying for his victory. With this thought in mind he shoved his own hurt down.

He forced himself to set the paintings down and leave the basement without another word. He had no desire to ruin everything because he could not overcome his grief. Connor stared after him.

Marceline Mercereau nee Cooper had met John Mercereau when she was a blushing girl of fourteen and he a strapping young lad of seventeen. He had rented the room above her family's general store. In the evenings he would come buy a bun from her. She still remembered the soft smile he would send her way and the shy tilt of his head. Even back then he had entertained big dreams. Dreams she wanted to help him achieve. When she was seventeen he asked for her hand and she agreed with all her heart and soul. The next year, when she was months pregnant with their first child, John bought his first carriage and opened his business.

The next twenty-five years were nothing short of bliss. Of course, there were hard times. Life in the colonies was never easy and John was often gone on business. But they had each other and that was all Marceline could ever want from life.

Then the war started. The Mercereau's carefully did not voice an opinion one way or another on the matters of taxes, tea, and independence to any save their closest companions. If the loyalists believed them to be loyal, or at worst neutral, they would continue to patronize the Flying Machine. The same held true for the colonial rebels.

The war was a strangely profitable time for the couple. People did not want to be on the road for longer than they had to when skirmishes could break out anywhere at any time. It meant that she saw her husband very rarely, but they lived in relative comfort (save for the lack of sufficient quantities of tea and sugar).

Of course, war was never a good thing. Luckily they had been spared the loss of a child or even close friends. Her husband had returned from a trip nearly a month previously with a full bag of coins and a vaguely haunted look on his face. He had not wanted to explain what had happened but, upon some cajoling, eventually told her of a strange young man covered in blood carrying an older man who seemed gravely injured. John had been less disturbed by the blood or injuries than by the grave look in the boy's eyes. He had said it was like looking in the eyes of a man returned from a massacre. Even a month later she shuddered at the thought. To think of her own son looking that way made her feel positively ill.

Currently Marceline was in the kitchen preparing a pot of coffee for John and the man who had just appeared on their doorstep. She wished the strange man would go away. John did not seem to sense the same vile intent off the newcomer as she did.

"Can you go anywhere except Philadelphia?" The man's voice rasped from the parlor.

There was a brief pause and Marceline knew that John was thinking of the strange young man and his companion before, "No, Philadelphia is all we do."

"That's a shame, can you direct me to someone what can?" The visitor asked, "I've lost track of a friend of mine. I know he took a carriage from New York but I don't know where he went. I was hoping to find the service he used."

Marceline gathered the small pitcher of milk and the taller carafe of coffee on a tray with two cups and reentered the parlor. The visitor did not glance up as she set the tray on the small central table but John cast a gentle smile of thanks her way. She returned the expression.

The visitor prepared a cup of coffee for himself. John did the same.

"I'm afraid I can't-"

"It's just that I'm so worried about him. I think he was injured and, well, it's kind of my responsibility to look out for the lad."

John looked at Marceline, she shook her head minutely. Something about this man rubbed her the wrong way.

But, John had that look in his eye that said he was going to ignore her advice. Normally that might bother her, but she had no real reason to distrust the man seated before them. When she put aside her feelings, the man did seem quite genuine in his worry….

"I can't take you there," John apologized, "But if you can arrange different transportation I can give you directions to where I dropped your friend."

The visitor smiled, "Thank you sir, you've really set my mind at ease."

* * *

It was taking far longer than he wanted to admit to find out where the assassin lived. Birch ruefully decided that it had been far too long since he had left his plush office and actually done something for himself. In the old days he would have found out such information in far less time, in fact in the old days he would have discovered the information and immediately left to take care of the issue. He despised the aging process. Furthermore, he had no idea when it had happened to him. It seemed he had been promoted to Grandmaster only yesterday.

With a soft groan he twisted to stretch his aching back. The chorus of pops that greeted him deepened his scowl.

"Mr. Birch, sir, are you hale?" The raspy voice disturbed the silence he had previously enjoyed.

That was another thing, Birch thought, Haytham's failure in the colonies meant that Reginald was forced to rely on those who he could quickly hire. Had the Colonial Rite still existed he could have simply stepped into Haytham's position and taken up the reins of leadership and already had the resources and manpower he needed. Now though he was obligated to either do everything himself or rely on those he did not know or trust to get the job done.

"Perfectly," he said. He had no desire to complain of his aches and regrets to the help, furthermore it would be in no way appropriate. "Why are you here?"

"We found something, sir."

* * *

Clipper had to suppress a multitude of emotions as he approached Washington's tent outside Yorktown. He had heard so much good about General Washington from the time he was a child and the general was only a captain.

But, he knew so much more now than he had then. Now he knew that the men who burned the villages of Connor's people and the people like him were no heroes. He had seen the look in Connor's eyes when he sat before a campfire and the scars on men his own age who would have been only children when the war was happening. If there was one thing in the world that Clipper could not stand it was soldiers hurting children in the name of a war in which they had no part. But his disgust with the man's actions could not fully override his childhood admiration. The two emotions warred within him, slowing his steps and churning in his gut.

When he was still ten steps away from the tent flap two men appeared, one on either side. They held their muskets with a competence Clipper was unaccustomed to seeing in colonial soldiers.

"I come with a message for the General," Clipper forced the words through a tight throat, hoping against hope that his fear did not show on his face. He clenched his fists by his sides, desperately wishing he had disarmed himself before approaching the man who was, arguably, the most important single person in the colonial war effort.

The taller of the two men took one look at him and laughed.

"Boy, if ye wanna join up, yer local militia's the place to start, not the general of the whole damn outfit!"

Clipper fought not to show his relief. They thought he was a would-be colonial soldier, not a British assassin come to kill the general, as was his initial worry. An idea struck him.

"I'm already enlisted, sir." He stood a little straighter. It wasn't really a lie, after all, he _was_ a soldier of a sort. "I bring a confidential message from my commander for the general. It was too sensitive to be written out."

The shorter man narrowed his eyes, casting a shrewd look over Clipper that left him feeling far more exposed than his companion's attention had. He tried not to look away from the searching gaze. Finally, the man spoke.

"Cooper, inform the general he has a visitor."

"But, sir!"

Without looking away from Clipper the shorter man snapped, "Go!"

Cooper went. As soon as he disappeared into the tent the man spoke again, "Were it not for the fact that I have a standing order to allow a 'strange, heavily armed young man' in to see him you would already be in chains. You are clearly no militia-man."

Clipper swallowed. He wished he was on a roof somewhere far away, safe and hidden. The desire filled him, crushing any words he might have found to defend his lie. He opened his mouth, unsure what was about to come out…

"He says ye may enter," Cooper said as he exited the tent. He held the flap open. Clipper gratefully fled from the soldier's piercing gaze. He skidded to a stop just inside the tent.

General Washington sat behind a simple wooden desk. Papers were scattered about in semi-organized piles, their edges fluttering in the breeze from Clipper's hasty entrance. He did not look up immediately, giving Clipper the opportunity to gather himself and observe the man. The general he had so idolized as a youth was a handsome man, that much even Clipper could tell. He was bent over the papers in a way that suggested substantial height and his shoulders were broad. The uniform of his station rested easily on him, obviously well-made and cared for despite the rough times the colonial army had faced.

When Washington looked up his eyes widened ever so slightly. "You are not who I expected to see standing there," the general put down his pen. "Who are you?"

Clipper swallowed, "Clipper Wilkensen, sir." Washington continued to stare, blank-faced, "I'm one of Connor's men."

Recognition dawned. "Oh, my sources told me he had been killed."

The dispassionate way he spoke of one of Clipper's greatest fears cleared the last of the hero worship from his eyes. The man before him, while a brilliant general and leader of men, was just that – a man. Perhaps he had changed since the last war, perhaps he was better than he had been, but in the end he was the cause of the nightmares Connor would never admit to having. Clipper found he could not forgive Washington that.

"He was not." Clipper barely managed to say the word, "killed. I bring a message from him."

For the first time Clipper felt like he had Washington's full attention.

"Why does he not bring it himself?"

Of that Clipper was not sure. Yes, Connor was injured, gravely so. But that had never been enough to stop the assassin before. All he knew was that Connor had asked him to accomplish a task and he would do so.

"Never mind," Washington sounded so very weary as he spoke, "You damn assassins are always so secretive." He sighed deeply, running two fingers along his brow. "What's the message?"

Clipper imagined himself back on the porch of the Davenport manor. Connor sat across from him, a faint grimace on his face and a soft breeze ruffling his hair. He told Clipper the message he wanted him to deliver in an emotionless voice. It was a tone Clipper had never before heard from the other man. He did not like it. He repeated the message exactly as he had heard it.

"He wishes me to tell you that due to his injuries in the pursuit of the traitor Charles Lee he will not be able to continue to aid the war effort. He deeply regrets this outcome," Washington snorted softly, a bitter look on his face that Clipper realized perfectly matched the expression Connor had worn not three days previously.

"Are the rest of you still willing to help you fellow country-man?"

Clipper wanted to point out that Connor's fellow country-men had been run off by Washington's (and, admittedly, his own) and that he really had no obligation to help the colonials at all. Furthermore, he disliked the casual dismissal of Connor's wellbeing. He stood a little taller.

"I cannot speak for my compatriots, sir," he kept his voice as even as possible, "I myself am still working directly for Connor and cannot abandon my sworn duty."

That was not technically a lie. He would always be Connor's man first. If the assassin were to tell him to attend to Washington's orders he would of course do so. But, Connor wanted him to return to Dobby after this. Besides, all Clipper really wanted to do was flee the man's presence, not enlist himself to work for him.

Washington sighed, "I would attempt to force your hand," he admitted, "But, I doubt I would be successful. Damn secretive and stubborn you lot. Fine, leave. If you ever change your mind the people of America could use your skills."

Clipper nodded his assent and turned on his heel. He left the tent with a far more sedate pace than he had entered.

* * *

Reginald could not help but turn up his nose when he arrived in the tiny village his informant told him belonged to the Assassin. It was positively dismal. The only sign of civilization was the whitewashed Inn. He was genuinely surprised that the inn appeared to have actual glass windows. The shine of the sun on the glass seemed out of place given that the town was no more than a single dirt path lined on either side by homes. He could just barely see the top of a water mill from where he stood. They hadn't even bothered to clear a true road to the village, instead relying on the narrow wagon path that diverged from the main road in the region. Birch understood that the Assassins preferred to be isolated from the rest of society when they were not doing their work (it was one of what he believed to be their great weaknesses, how could you understand the intricacies of the effects of their actions when they were not there to see it?) but this seemed excessive. At least the Assassins in the Caribbean had a full town on their little island.

He could not imagine being an assassin for this reason alone. Reginald Birch was a man who enjoyed the finer things in life, he always had. When he was younger he was far more willing to get his hands dirty and live roughly than he was now-a-days. But, if it would rid him of the damn colonial assassins then he was willing to do whatever was necessary.

He straightened his shoulders and entered the Inn. This would all be over before sundown if he had any say in the matter.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:
> 
> Yorktown and Washington – The Siege of Yorktown took place between September 28th and October 19, 1781 (Connor and Haytham had their final confrontation at some point very soon after the Battle of the Chesapeake, which was September 5thm 1781 and about three weeks have passed in this story). General Washington and the French army troops laid siege to Yorktown, Virginia. Yorktown was held by General Lord Cornwallis. The British had ground troops and a navy at their command. General Lord Cornwallis made several large blunders in his defense of the city, but the greatest of these was to withdraw troops back from some outlying defensible points which were then captured by the Americans and used to great effect throughout the campaign. General Lord Cornwallis' surrender to the French/Americans would prove to be the last big defeat of the British in the war. After this the British and American began negotiations to end the war. The French provided the navy and the American provided the ground troops (a pattern throughout the course of the war after the French agreed to help the Americans screw over the British). It has been said that if Washington planned all the events that took place during this campaign then it would be an example of some of the greatest military strategy ever evidenced, however, it is unclear whether or not he actually planned it or just took advantage of multiple opportunities created for him by Cornwallis' mistakes.
> 
> Whitewashing (the paint-like substance, not the practice) - Folk knowledge says that pioneer women invented whitewash to cover the dirt walls of their homes on the plains of the American West. This is untrue. It is far older than the expansion of the American colonies/states. It is an extremely cheap form of paint still used today in farming applications (on barns and trees, etc.) It has mild antiseptic qualities due to the lye and is useful for maintaining a clean environment in dairy barns. It is made up of slaked Lye, chalk, water, and possibly an additive for color or durability depending on the recipe your local village used. For example, in Suffolk, England it was common to color the paint-like substance with pig's blood creating a distinctive color named after the region 'Suffolk Pink'. It is considered a sign of poverty since it is so very cheap to make (though in colonial times this would not have been as salient as it is today since paints were harder to attain in general and whitewash was the norm).


	16. Stray But a Little

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Welcome to the last chapter! (Well, this and the epilogue). The author’s note in the epilogue is pretty important, so check it out when I post that (two days from now).
> 
> Pairings: None (canon Homesteader pairings, past Haytham/Ziio
> 
> Warnings: Violence (canon typical), Racial slurs and Racism

Chapter 16: Stray But a Little

Many years had passed since Reginald was the young man recently of Edward Kenway’s acquaintance and always on the lookout for a fight. Back then he had been so full of rage. The world was an unfair, imperfect place, once which had taken everything he loved from him. He was bitter and alone when the Templars found him. The words they spoke and the ideas held within were the only thing that kept him going some days. So, when the Grandmaster himself tasked Reginald with becoming close to Edward Kenway, ‘reformed’ pirate and Assassin, he leapt at the opportunity. He would have done anything back then to repay the Order for all it had given him.

As it turned out, it was no great burden to become close to the Kenway family. The eldest child, Jennifer was already a great beauty even at the tender age of sixteen and when Edward broached the topic of marriage Reginald found himself pleased by the idea. Haytham was more that Reginald could ever have hoped to find. The young boy was like a little brother to him, bringing out the child he had forgotten he had ever been. Nowadays Reginald was embarrassed to remember the amount of time he spent on the cellar floor playing soldiers. But, his relationship with the children paled in comparison to what he felt for Edward. The older man was like no one else Reginald had ever encountered; a pirate getting by in high society on the merit of his natural charisma and congenial nature. There was no one who did not respect Edward and Reginald found himself dreading the day his orders to kill the man would be handed down.

Eventually that day did come. Reginald gathered his men, mercenaries bought with Templar treasury gold, and attached the house the Kenways were living in. Jennifer disappeared in the chaos and Haytham ended up by Reginald’s side, scared and sobbing because he had seen one of the men kill his father and he couldn’t find his sister. Reginald had to choke back a sob at the thought. His best friend was dead on his order. The only solace he could find was that it had not been his sword that struck the final blow.

He took young Haytham with him that day. The boy would need a familiar face, he reasoned. Besides, it would do the lad good to forget all the ridiculous Assassin training he had been receiving and follow the correct path in life.

Now, as Reginald stood at the base of the path leading up to the house on the hill his informants told him was the Assassin’s he found himself thinking of the trusting gaze the young boy had bestowed upon him all those years ago. He remembered the feel of smooth metal soldiers and a dirt floor beneath him and the simple happiness that only playing with a child can bring. It was strange to remember such strong feelings after so many years of apathy.

Reginald shook his head to dispel the thoughts. It was time to end all this. The Assassin would pay for destroying the Colonial Rite.

* * *

 

Haytham’s morning stroll through the Homestead was less relaxing the last few days as the population had grown steadily more hostile towards him. It was difficult to relax properly when glares followed him around. He ignored the sensation of eyes following his every move and attempted to enjoy the midmorning air. He had just rounded the bend between the manor and the ‘town’ center when Norris jogged up to him.

“Good morning,” Haytham greeted him with a smile.

Norris nodded back, “I have spoken with Corrine.”

He did not elaborate and Haytham did not press. He had learned long ago that asking for information from someone who was already going to give it to you seemed desperate and meant that the cost of that information went up. They walked past the inn. Haytham could hear the sounds of children laughing and splashing and he mentally amended his route to avoid the riverside.

Finally, Norris broke the silence.

“She says that Ellen’s daughter overheard you threaten to kill Connor.”

_That_ was news to Haytham. To his knowledge he had never threatened to kill Connor verbally while on the Homestead.

“When was this?” He inquired, careful to keep his voice even and unalarmed.

“Right after you brought the lad back to us,” Norris shook his head, “They’re being fools. Anyone with eyes can see that you care about Connor.”

That he was so obvious made Haytham highly uncomfortable. He had worked so very hard to maintain a healthy distance between himself and his son.

“It will all calm down soon,” Norris finally said, “already gossip about ze gentleman staying at the Mile’s End is more interesting to everyone.”

“Oh?”

Norris nodded, “Some older chap named Root. No, zat’s not right…. Branch?”

Cold fingers trailed up Haytham’s spine. He grabbed Norris’ arm, “Was it Birch?”

Norris snapped his fingers, seemingly oblivious to Haytham’s sudden panic. “Yeah! Reginald Birch, zat was it. Hey, where are you going?”

Haytham did not respond. He was running as fat as he could back up the hill towards the house. There was only one reason why Reginald would be on the Homestead. Haytham would not allow it.

* * *

 

Haytham found Connor in the kitchen slicing some late season apples into slices. He was so relieved to find the young man hale that he slumped against the wall, panting.

Connor set down the knife he had been using and approached with a worried look on his face.

“Father?” he questioned. “What’s happening?”

Haytham opened his mouth to reply but another voice interrupted.

“Well, this was not quite what I expected to find here.”

Haytham raised his head and met the gaze of his mentor for the first time in years. Birch smirked at him. There was relief in his eyes and posture and Haytham suddenly hated himself for knowing how all of this was going to play out.

“I admit, I was disappointed when I found out you allowed yourself to be killed by a mere lad,” Birch continued, “But, this is far better. You were just playing with him all along.”

Haytham shook his head minutely. He desperately wished he had picked up his pistols when he left his room that morning.

* * *

 

Connor looked back and forth between his father and the strange man.

“Sir, may I ask who you are and why you are in my home?” Obviously Haytham knew the man, though Connor was having trouble reading what exactly their relationship was.

The newcomer smirked, “Oh dear, you are an ignorant little savage aren’t you?” Connor felt his lip curl into a snarl. “I am you better in every way. I am the Grandmaster of the British Rite.”

“Birch,” Connor growled. His voice lacked the power it normally held since breathing deeply was still a difficult proposition for him. He shifted into a more comfortable position to ensure a spasm did not creep up on him.

“Ah, so you do know of me.” Birch smirked, “Excellent. Then we may get down to business. Haytham, would you like the honor?” Haytham did not move.

Birch was blocking the only exit from the kitchen. Were he at peak health the old man would have been no obstacle. He would simply step forward and kill him, no trouble, no fuss. But, he was not at peak health. Connor cursed his weakened condition.

Birch stared between he and his father; he seemed to be trying to puzzle something out. His eyes were narrowed and his breath coming in short, rapid huffs.

“Well, aren’t you going to do it?” Birch finally asked, his voice incredulous. “The mutt is helpless right now. Just put him down.” Haytham glared at him.

“I am removing myself from the situation,” Haytham said decisively. He crossed his arms in front of his chest.

Birch did not appear to understand. Connor was not sure he did either.

“I beg your pardon?” Reginald asked, “Why have you not slain the assassin in his sleep? I understand doing all this to earn his trust, though from all reports if you had simply left him in the woods he would have perished like the animal he is.”

Connor rolled his eyes. When he was younger comments like that had hurt, but he was so used to them at this point he could only wish people might be a little more original with their comments. But, his father was not accustomed to hearing such things about his son. Connor watched out of the corner of his eye as Haytham shifted positions. Connor recognized the way he was standing from their morning workouts; he could leap into action at a moment’s notice from that position.

“He is not an animal,” the calm delivery belied the fury sparkling in Haytham’s eyes. Connor took a moment to feel grateful the look was not directed at him. That grateful feeling was surrounded by a warm happiness he was not sure he had experienced before. A fondness for his father that he had never before felt. Achilles had understood the pain of being ostracized for who he was and his sympathy stemmed from his own experiences. Haytham had never felt that pain, and yet, here he stood defending not only Connor’s body but also his heart.

Birch seemed to realize that his basic assumptions about the situation were wrong. He looked back and forth between Connor and Haytham.

“God above,” he suddenly breathed, “You actually want the whelp to live.”

Haytham shifted uncomfortably back and forth. Connor had already come to the realization that Birch just had nearly a week previously. It was a strange fact to live with to be sure, but now that he had had time to process it only felt natural.

“This is absurd!” Birch exclaimed. “If you won’t do it, I will.” He pulled a flintlock from his belt. Despite his age the barrel was steady as it pointed at Connor’s forehead.

“Say goodbye, Assassin. Die knowing your cause is lost.”

He pulled the hammer of the pistol back with a sharp click. Connor forced himself to focus only on the finger which rested on the trigger. He would have to move at the exact right moment to avoid the shot. Every muscle in his body tensed, prepared for motion.

* * *

 

When the moment finally came the decision was an easy one for Haytham. He had thought he would agonize over whether to side with his son or with his mentor, but when he came face to face with Reginald it did not seem so unclear. He stood with his son at his side and Reginald opposing them. The Grandmaster had a pistol levelled at Connor, his eyes alight with hatred and intent. It was the image Haytham had only recently realized he feared the most. He felt Connor move closer to his side, in fear or support Haytham did not know. Whichever it was he appreciated the gesture. He and his son had come a long way and he knew that the wrong decision here would ruin all they had accomplished. So, no, the choice was not a hard one.

Haytham’s hidden blade slipped free of its sheathe. He sprung, forcing the blade through flesh and bone. It was done.

He collapsed to the ground. His knees smarting from the impact.

Haytham Kenway was finally free.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Fact:  
> The flintlock is an amazing piece of technology. It was essentially the most advanced tech available to the common man (save for maybe the pendulum clock, aka the Grandfather Clock). Invented in the 1500s the pistols (and other gun models) worked by placing a flint, a type of extremely hard stone commonly used for fire-starting and arrowheads, at the end of a hammer. The hammer is propelled by a powerful spring into a piece of steel called a frizzen. This produces sparks which ignite gunpowder stored in a small pan. The gun also has a mechanism for refilling the pan and protecting the entire set-up from the elements (since damp powder won’t ignite). These are the guns that are used throughout the Assassin’s Creed series and they are awesome. I highly recommend reading about them if you’ve got a few free minutes.


	17. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So, we’ve come to the end. I hope y’all have enjoyed reading this as much as I have enjoyed writing it. This chapter is the epilogue of “Make Him Proud”, but since one of my big ideas for this story did not fit into the plot there will be a sequel (which is already plotted out and the first few chapters are written). This epilogue will act as the prologue of the second story. Basically, if you still have questions about Haytham’s childhood, why Birch was still alive to cause mischief, or like Edward you should check it out. Here’s the info:
> 
> Title: Do Right By Him
> 
> Summary: Mr. Faulkner thinks Connor needs to get back in the saddle and insists he goes on a short, treasure hunting voyage. Haytham thinks this is A Very Bad Idea and suspects it will go terribly, but with Connor excited to get back out there he decides to accompany them (to prevent any major disasters…) Meanwhile, in a final desperate gambit to stop the colonial rebellion Great Britain decides to offer pirates clemency in exchange for their services as privateers against colonial ships. This is a series of one-shots that each stands alone in the context of the story.
> 
> Once again, I want to thank everyone who has reviewed. Y’all have been amazing. The suggestions, historical notes (and corrections of my historical notes), and general feedback have helped keep me motivated and on track through this whole process.
> 
> Huge thanks to my beta, Kris, without whom this story would be far less coherent. 
> 
> Warnings: None

Epilogue/Prologue:

No one wanted Birch to be buried in the same little plot of land beside the church as Achilles. In fact, no one wanted him buried anywhere on the homestead. Instead they sent a rider to the nearest port with a heavy bag of gold and a request that the next shipping off to England stop off in the cove. It arrived with a very grateful crew the next day. Norris and Warren had wrapped Birch in every available scrap of cloth while Terry and Godfrey had constructed a coffin with thick enough sides to hopefully keep the stench of death at bay for the length of the voyage to England. When they left the manor to take the box down to the docks, Godfrey had clapped Haytham on the shoulder and called him ‘a good sort’. Haytham supposed that meant the people of the Homestead were finally over their idea that he was there to harm his son.

Connor and Haytham had made their way down to the docks over the course of a morning. Haytham strolled along as if he hadn’t a care in the world and Connor forced himself to keep moving despite the distance. He was inordinately proud when they reached the docks and he had not required more than a single rest break. They sat in an oddly comfortable silence as ropes were wound around the coffin.

“Why did you kill him?” Connor asked. The ropes creaked as the coffin was raised onto the ship. Connor cut his gaze to Haytham without turning his head. His father’s lips thinned, whitening at the corners. So it had not been the easy decision it appeared at the time. Strangely that made Connor feel better about the whole thing.

“Reginald Birch was not a good man,” Haytham finally said. “I have known for some time that he had a hand in my father’s death. For that, if nothing else, he deserved to die. I was simply too blinded by misplaced loyalty before to see it.”

Connor levered himself up from the pile of wood he had been leaning against. They turned away from the ship and began to walk back towards the inn.

“Besides,” Haytham continued in a softer voice than before, “He threatened you.”

Connor’s breath caught in his throat. He thought that was probably the closest Haytham would ever come to a declaration of affection. Connor smiled fondly at Haytham’s back, “Me too.” He muttered to himself. They fell into the most comfortable silence they had ever shared. There were still many things left unsaid, too many for true ease. But a wary peace had been struck, held together by trust built over the last three months. Morning training sessions and meals shared with the homesteaders did wonders for stained relationships it seemed.

Suddenly the silence was broken by a sharp call from the dock.

“Connor! Mr. Haytham!” Faulkner trotted up to them wiping his dripping forehead down with the rag he always kept on his person. Connor could see Haytham grimace in his peripheral vision, he felt the corner of his lips twitch into a slight smile.

“The boys and me’re goin’ pirate huntin’ t’morrow,” Faulkner declared. He glanced at Connor, “And we were thinkin’ it might be a good idea if you came with us.”

Connor jerked at the suggestion. His eyes flashed to Haytham’s and back to Faulkner. “I, um-” Faulkner rested one hand on Connor’s shoulder.

“Lad,” he smiled fondly, “You need to get back out there. Birch and that bastard Lee may be dead but there’s others out there. You are still needed in the world. You can’t live out the rest of your days hiding away in the woods.”

Connor stared out at the ocean for a long few moments before steeling his shoulders and nodding. “You are right, Mr. Faulkner. I have been hidden away for far too long.”

This was a very, very bad idea. That was all Haytham could think as Connor nodded at Faulkner. The boy couldn’t even jog, he could barely complete a single set of exercises without needing to rest for a few hours. How could he honestly expect to complete an entire voyage at sea without incident? He had opened his mouth to voice those very thoughts when he actually looked at his son. Connor stood before him looking different than Haytham had ever seen him. He and Faulkner were looking out over the ocean. The breeze ruffled the short hair that was beginning to grow back in on the sides of his head, the setting sun gave him a healthy glow and Haytham could almost see how this trip might be beneficial. So, instead of protesting, he stayed silent.

“Excellent,” Faulkner laughed, “We’ll expect you at dawn.” He spun on his heel and started back down the path to the small cabin by the dock.

“Are you sure about this?” Haytham muttered as soon as Faulkner was out of hearing range.

Connor nodded without hesitation. “Yes. He is right. I have been a coward and it is time for that to end. Of course you may stay here if you desire. If not, I’m sure Birch did not sell your home in-”

“What are you talking about?” Haytham interrupted. Connor tuned to face him, his head slightly cocked in confusion.

“What you will do while I am gone? This voyage may last many months and as you are considered dead by most I thought you may not wish to be seen in the city.”

Haytham snorted inelegantly, “I’m coming with you.” He declared, “There is no telling what trouble you would get up to without me to talk some sense into you.”

Connor grinned. Bonding time between father and son on the high seas, hunting pirates. Sounded like fun.

“Besides all that,” Haytham continued, “You are _terrible_ behind the wheel of a ship. It’s time you had a decent teacher, else you might run into the first island you come across.”

Connor groaned. Maybe not quite so much fun.

**END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do not read further if you are going to continue reading the sequel and do not want spoilers.
> 
> IMPORTANT Note about Sequel: This story has a bit of ‘everybody lives’ to it, I know some people hate that so I thought I would give you a bit of warning. As with Make Him Proud I am striving to keep it as historically accurate and plausible as possible and you will get a reasonable explanation for every character who is revealed to be alive though they are canonically dead.


End file.
